


If Your Heart Is Black Like Mine

by whaccko



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Downed a shit ton of energy drinks at 3 am and this happened, F/M, Hope you enjoy, Survivor Reader, Susie appreciation hours included, bit of a slow burn, i tried to write frank as much of a bastard as i could, i tweaked the realm a bit, i'd say enemies to lovers but, less video game vibes, plz leave comments i love to hear from you all :), this is just me having fun and i hope it shows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whaccko/pseuds/whaccko
Summary: You were eighteen going on nineteen—fresh out of high school—when you were left for dead and woke up in a supernatural realm of gore and torment. Yet, with nothing but a faint niggling of your worldly demise and no way to recover the forgotten memories, you're left wondering what happened on the night your life was stripped from you. How, why, and who all faceless questions. But as ruthless, misery-inducing trials plague on the hope of ever uncovering answers has begun to diminish. Until a new group of masked killers are invited to partake in the Entity's sick game...And you find yourself testing dangerous waters in a desperate attempt to touch on what was better left alone.
Relationships: Frank Morrison/Reader, Jake Park/Reader
Comments: 30
Kudos: 66





	1. To Die and Come Back Again

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!! I am super excited to post this. I've been chipping at this story for a week and plan to keep writing it, so I wanted to share it with you all. But, fair warning, I'm making this up as I go. Anyway, I hope you like it as much as I do lol.

The darkness surrounding the campfire crept inward tonight, hung over your head like the shadowy figure of a phantom. Everyone seemed to be in a bad mood. Shoulders slumped, brows in a frustrated pinch, blood, and dirt smeared across bruised skin. Though, in a world where you’re continuously hunted for sport by humans and creatures alike—some might think the survivors were forever stuck mulling in a pit of gloom and doom. But it wasn’t always this miserable. There would be times where survivors would come back from a trial with the grin of a champion, crimson dripping down from a nostril as they boasted about evading the last killer with ease. Times where the crew of scraggly hunted would sit around the flickering flames of the fire and banter like age-old friends as they re-hashed stories of their lives prior to being sucked into the Entity’s realm. Those were your favorite moments when you were allotted the chance to get to know the others a little bit more. Peeling them apart like an onion; layer by layer; war story after war story.

But tonight, no one seemed willing to do more than grunt and glare endlessly into the growing ash buried around the hilt of the campfire. You hadn’t been swept into the last trial and took your rest with a sigh of relief. Back hunched against the gruff bark of a roughly sawed log while your train of thought derailed into a hopeless pit of despair. One you were old friends with. 

Time worked differently in this new world. Hell, it didn’t even exist, which left you to ponder fruitlessly how long you’d been here. You weren’t the newest survivor, nor the oldest—a sorry excuse for a middle—groundhopping between experienced and inexperienced.

Sometimes it felt as if you had only just awakened in the Entity’s realm. And other times, it was hard not to feel as if you’d been trapped here for an eternity and then some. The endless loop of gore and misery made the wait fuzzy. Trials began to blend as the somewhat decent memories here became few and far between. It all began to feel like one big fucked up blur, and when the thirtieth or something trial came around, you gave up hope of ever keeping track.

You could have been here for a day and wouldn’t know it—week, month, a year. You suppose that in the end, it wouldn’t matter how long you’d been in this realm, but still, a part of you yearned to just _know_. You wanted answers to a lot of questions the Entity wasn’t inclined to give, however, and the lack of truth began to build. Becoming a heavy burden to weigh down your shoulders until your back was destined to break.

Someone sighs and your stare dances from body to body in search of who it was. With the point of his finger, Dwight pushes his filth caked glasses up the bridge of his nose and sighs again. Maybe the silence is getting to him. Or, maybe, it’s just the acid-laced tension suffocating the campfire. Meg itches her nose. Claudette is hunched over her knees with her chin tucked into the palm of her hand, while Kate chews on her lip with feverish intent. They all seem bored out of their minds.

_Do you remember how you died?_ The question is on the tip of your tongue. Burning. 

You’d never asked, even though the query has been a bug in your ear since the day of your arrival. Hot searing pain, a flash of red, and then darkness sums up about the width of your memories. Was it the same for all of the others? Judging from the stories shared of their past lives, most of them had been nabbed by the Entity far from the brink of death. Min had been drunk off her ass, Jake had been out on a routine stroll in the morning—nothing of consequence. Yet, Tapp, bleeding out from a gunshot wound and Quentin, having faced the infamous Freddy Krueger in his final moments, had still been able to recall in vivid detail the last few seconds of their Earthly lives.

You couldn’t. The last thing you remembered—or, more accurately, the lack of what you could remember—ate at you incessantly. A dying need to just know how and why your life had been stolen from you, and by whose hand it was taken.

Your mouth falls open, the infamous question ready to pop when the fog began to creep up out of the corner of your eye. It was far away from the campsite, a foot from the outskirt of the surrounding forest. Black pines tower above the patch of dirt all the survivors free of a trial hang around. The trees sway to a nonexistent wind. Exaggerated shadows stretch out towards you like crippled claws. The fog grew denser and then a darkened silhouette appeared.

Jake came stumbling through, clothes a disheveled mess, a muddied stain pooled down the front of his chest. He strides over, however, with confident legs but exhausted shoulders. There are no open wounds to tell of the dangers he’d just pushed through, only the lingering blood saturating his clothes, but even that would be gone soon. He stops a few feet away from the orange overcast of the flames, then looks over his shoulder, expectantly.

He’s waiting for someone.

Right on cue, another fog begins to accumulate where a tall, muscular form takes place. Pushing through the wisps of smoke emerged a leather-toting, middle-aged, bearded man. Someone you had never seen before. A new survivor. He pauses at the sight of the others, an uneasiness sweeping across scarred features.

“Everyone,” Jake addresses, turning back to face the flames. “This is Jeffrey Johansen.”

The mood seems to pick up at that, the exhausted survivors eager to welcome the new meat. No one rises to the occasion, however, offering instead half-assed waves and limp smiles. The mood’s lightened, but not by much. Jake leads the burly man over before slumping down beside Claudette, his mud-caked boots kicked out in front of him. There’s an unbridled weariness warping Jake’s features. Any moment, he looks as if he’s about to collapse, even though you knew he couldn’t.

“How did your first trial go?” You asked.

Jeff seems hesitant to join the group. Most newbies are. You can remember joining the campfire after your first trial and trying to book it into the woods, wary that if you stuck around, these people would dawn masks too and chase you with an ax just like the killer had. Meg had tackled you to the ground before you’d stepped foot into the surrounding thicket, though, and cautiously warned you of the dangers that lurked beyond. You had no choice but to comply. At least, your past self had figured, until you could find a way to get yourself the hell out of this place.

That way never came. And you’d grown accustomed to newfound terrors since.

With a shake of his head, Jeffrey plops down on an empty log. There’s a sense of quiet disgruntlement about him. The softest sort of temper you’d ever seen, yet even that fades, and his shoulders slump forward with a pitiful sigh.

“It sucked.”

Someone snickers. You hadn’t expected an answer any different.

“Better get used to it,” Ace grunts. Nobody argues.

The silence settles upon you again. For just a moment. It’s suffocating and yet refreshing, too. You’re not sure if you’re desperate to rid yourself of the tension slicked quiet or to distract yourself from your ever-depressing thoughts. Either way, you’re a little more than thankful when Jake speaks up again.

He tended to talk only when something important needed to be said. When he opened his mouth, everybody listened.

“There’s a new killer.”

“Oh,” Your lips twitch into a frown. “Got any bad news?”

His glare cuts right through you. It’s not born of malice or irritation. It’s blank, and that, oddly enough, disturbs you more.

“He’s called the Legion. Came here with Jeffrey.”

“You can call me Jeff.”

“Alright.” There’s a pause. Jake purses his lips and nods. “For a killer, I’ve seen worse. For the first half of the trial, he stuck to lurking in the shadows but caught on quicker to the rules of the game than most. I got out just as he began to test the waters on the whole ‘kill frenzy' thing.”

“What’s his weapon of choice?” You asked.

“Knife.”

“Oh. That’s not so bad.” Meg cut in, ever optimistic.

You give a lazy shrug. “Better than having your skull crushed by a bear trap.”

“Or being cut in half with a chainsaw.”

The group of survivors more or less nod in agreement. Jeff’s skin has grown a sickly sheen, the color of dirty linen. He rubs his hands together, expression disturbed. He could use a friendly pat on the back or a comforting hug by now, you’re sure. You know you could have used one the first time your mind had been overwhelmed by the grizzly terrors being discussed so casually by a group of strangers. Like the kind of small talk one made over a cup of coffee in the morning.

Sometimes, you still wish for that hug. Having someone to hold you close and whisper the horrors away with gentle words would make it a whole lot easier. Nothing would ever be okay here, but it could be _bearable_. And that was all you were hoping for. The imagery of being held and coddled consumes your mind; your stare drifts across the fire. Jake met your eyes and his lips hitched a tad upwards in response. You return the gesture.

Again, a fog sets in, and this time, two survivors stumble in together. Laurie and Quentin slip in through the fog, crimson coating nearly every inch of their bodies. The starchy red begins to disintegrate, though, disappearing within the thread of their clothes. A few others return to the fire too, their moods all spoiled; eyes rimmed by deep circles. The dark tendrils of smoke drift between your ankles then, curling around the flesh of your wrists and calves.

“This one is me, guys.” The comment slipped out just as the Entity enclosed its fog around you. Carrying you off to a magical place of whipping wind and rust-stained snow.

* * *

Howling, frostbitten winds nip at your bare shoulders and tug at the locks of your hair. The cold is artificial, only a lingering chill against your skin in a place where you should be freezing, dressed in a stained wife-beater and thin jeans. On instinct, you wrap your arms tight around yourself and crouch to the ground. Nothing is recognizable. 

A rundown, derelict ski lodge sits close by. Battered shutters bang against the wooden structure; the windows have been bashed in, snow caking the inside and out. A mountainous forest range and wrought iron fencing encase the grounds. Your stare dances wildly across the arena, searching for any sign of a survivor, generator, or killer. The remnants of the last conversation held at the fire circles back around. Maybe you’ll get a taste of the new killer. A part of you hopes so. They’re beginners, still trying to get a handle on a new reality and all the shitty responsibilities that come with it. If you’re lucky, you could wind up back by a warmth-less fire in no time.

Abandoned construction equipment litters the area. A flash of tan weaving around the broken yard catches your attention, and with not much else to go on, you force yourself to follow. A trench coat and sharp haircut take form and you pick up your pace, chasing after the other newbie.

“Adam,” Your call is hushed, an octave above a whisper.

His entire body goes rigid but then relaxes into something between strict and stern. The two of you meet beneath a rickety lift tower. Peering up through the beams, the wood looks splintered and wrought with mold. The fact that the entire structure could collapse upon the two of you in a split second is a mere afterthought when he asks: “Have you seen the killer?”

Just past his shoulder, you spot the blink of a generator. With a beck of your hand, the two of you huddle close before stalking over in low, crouched positions.

“No, but I have my guesses on who it could be.” You answered, getting to work on the generator.

“Who?”

“I’m thinking the Legion.”

His face scrunches with perplexity, lips pursing in an attempt to fight back a frown.

“I know I haven’t been here long,” His voice is taught. “But I don’t remember anything about a Legion.”

“We get new killers just like we get new survivors.”

“I figured…The Legion is the new killer, I take. Who’s the new survivor then?”

Your fingers work quick, toying with the wires of the machine on instinct. You knew better than to allow yourself to grow content with the action, however. Growing content means becoming distracted and becoming distracted means making mistakes. If this is going to be an easy trial you can’t risk a generator exploding in your face. Even if the killer’s a possible newbie, they’re not deaf. Loud noises bring death.

“His name’s Jeff. Big biker type. But he’s got nice eyes.”

Adam’s response is a nod, attention laser-focused on repairs. Every few seconds you’d afford a glance over your shoulder as a safety precaution. You freeze at the sight of a crudely stitched-up mask peering out from behind a massive boulder. They duck behind it the moment you still, a flick of pink hair a stark contrast against the bleak, gray surroundings.

“Adam,” Your voice is a dying whisper. He recognizes the urgency in your tone immediately, however, and ceases all movement. You don’t wait for a response. “You run. I’ll lead them off.”

“Are you sure—“

You hop to your feet, heart hammering outside of your chest. Adam takes no further notes and scurries off; fleeing in the opposite direction your glare pinpoints. You wait for the killer to emerge, all blades and a terrifying blood-stained mask. Nothing happens, though, and out of morbid curiosity, you creep on closer to the rock. Maybe they’ve runoff...The part of you that knows better assumes otherwise. And yet, you’ve chosen to dance with the devil once more.

She’s tiny, wedged in between the crevice of two snow-dusted rocks, a rusted blade cradled to her chest. Her head snaps up at the crunch of your sneakers on the snow. White fog breaks apart your lips and clouds in front of your face.

“Hey.” Her wave is short-lived, small hand eager to return to the hilt of her knife.

“Um,” Your brows push together. “Hi?”

Jake said the Legion was a guy. So who’s this?

With a grunt, she heaves herself from her position on the hard ground. Snow sticks to the dark material of her leggings, skirt, and hoodie. There’s a familiar sense of teenage-dom that radiates from the killer. She’s dressed as you had in your early, angst-riddled high school years.

When the awkward quiet presses in all around her, she blurts: “I don’t want to kill any of you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Never in your time being here had you met a killer who didn’t jump at the chance to mutilate or gut any survivor in its sight. Perhaps it was because they were used to the drill, or more likely, they were all just cold, heartless, evil beings through and through. It wasn’t often that you gave much thought as to why they killed when you were too busy screaming in pain from a bear trap clamped around your foot, or an ax to the back.

Her fingers press together, fiddling around the knife.

“I’m Susie.”

“Y/n…”

Her shoulders slump with relief at that and she stuffs the weapon into the front pocket of her over-sized hoodie. Snowflakes drift around you, catching in the tangled locks of your hair, and build on the cotton of her shoulders. Susie sways to a deaf melody, unbothered by your lack of conversation. But you were at a serious loss of what to do here. She’s a killer. She can’t just not…Kill.

“You have to kill me,” You said.

There’s a lack of reaction from your perspective, her mask concealing what little chance of reading the situation you had. For all you knew, this could be some gimmick—a trick to lure you into the clutches of her blade. But for all the innocence Susie emitted, you had a hard time believing she was anything but.

“Why?” Her voice is high-pitched, tinged with disbelief.

You’re not sure how the Entity introduces his killers to their new life, but surely the basics had to of been explained. Right? The wind screams all around you, moaning in your ear.

“Because if you don’t, terrible things are going to happen to you.”

“This sucks!” 

You divulged from there, doing your best to explain to this pitifully lost and confused killer the rules of the Entity’s sick and twisted game. You weren’t sure if she believed you or not, but in the end, she seemed to concede, unsheathing her knife. The rumble of the exit gates lumbering themselves open startles you from the moment. Although you had said Susie would be punished if she failed to please the Entity, you weren’t sure what that exactly entailed. She was a sweet girl, though, and the need to help her out pressed into you like a migraine.

“Hook me.” You angled a finger in the direction of the nearest hook. Just sacrificing you might not be enough to save her, but there was a chance that it would, and that was enough for you.

“Do I have to?” Susie whined, shuffling her feet like a grumpy toddler.

“Yes.”

You march on over, toting her along by the sleeve of her sweatshirt. She dragged her feet the entire way, the heels of her boots cutting through the snow. When the two of you stood beneath the grotesque hooks, you tapped her shoulder in warning. A deprecating laugh bores into your gritted teeth; the fact that you’re asking to be hooked is like a slap in the face. 

In a few more trials or so, when Susie grows accustomed to the role of killer, things will be different. You know that, and yet, you stay.

“I like you. I’ll return the favor someday,” She said. 

She hoists you up by your arms with ease, having been gifted strength straight from the entity. She holds you for a minute with her head cocked to the side before easing you down onto the hook. It pierces through the soft flesh of your shoulder, a strangled whimper catching in your throat. You bite your tongue as the jagged edge pokes through to the other side. Susie might change her mind with a scream or a sob. Tears gloss over your gaze but you blink them away.

The worst part is when they let go. Always. When your body weighs itself down, left dangling above the ground by the very goddamn hook penetrating your flesh. Blood pools around the open wound, staining the cotton of your tank-top.

Susie shuffles backward as the world begins to collapse in on itself—all the survivors had escaped except you. The black tendrils of the Entity happen upon you like lightening, squeezing the meat of your arms, legs, and stomach. You don’t bother fighting back.

A rancid metallic taste coats your tongue. Blood trickles out of the corner of your mouth, dribbling down your chin. When you force a smile, it shakes; pearly whites stained a bright pink.

“Ouch. That looks like it hurts.” She said.

“Like a bitch.”

* * *

The fog envelopes around you then fades with the direction of the wind. Concerned and puzzled faces turn in your direction, cutting David off mid-sentence. His last words give you all the answers you need: “didn’t see the killer once.”

“Y/n, what happened to you?”

Adam’s long begun to relax (as relaxed as you can become when bothered by the ever-pressing information that any second now you could be sucked into a battle of life or death). His knees are hunched to his chest, body pressed to a log, trench coat flaps splayed beneath him. Quizzical expressions pin you where you’re stood, brought on by David’s victory boast of a swift and easy trial.

“I met the Legion.” You don’t give much of an answer and slump down onto the dirt ground, folding your legs crisscrossed around you. “One thing, though…Legion’s a girl.”

“What do you mean?” Jake’s face pinches. “Leather jacket, painted mask, average height?”

“Short, hot pink hair, plaid skirt.” You combat, running a distracted hand through your messy tresses.

He sits back at that, face contemplative. The _huh?_ Scrawled across his features like a thick sharpie. The others cast looks around the fire; gold highlights the depths of their eye-bags and scars. Meg slaps her palms to her cheeks and then rubs them to soothe the pain. You can’t even remember how many times you’d pinched or hit yourself, still believing that this was all some terrible, god awful, horribly gory nightmare.

“So, the Legion is more than one person,” Dwight concluded. Looking as if he’d just swallowed a very large and very bitter pill.

“Guess so.”

“I wonder how many more there are?” Kate rubs at the Goosebumps that litter her arms.

“Let’s hope it’s just the two of them,” David grunted.

Everyone looks to be in agreement.


	2. Violation of Expectation

You’d caught yourself wondering about Susie more than once, curious about her well being. Yet, every time, it bothered you more and more. There’s a reason she wound up in the realm as a killer instead of a survivor. You’re completely oblivious to the things she’s done, the people she’s killed. It made you feel stupid— _disappointed_ in yourself when you worried about her. As if you were breaking some unspoken promise between the survivors. There was no friendship between the hunters and the hunted. But it still couldn’t stop you from wondering.

Had your sacrifice kept her from punishment?

Has she been doing well in trials?

Avoiding the Entity’s wraith?

You hadn’t encountered Susie since her first trial. You’d heard snippets of conversation around the campfire, but the answers to your questions were few and far between. Though, as it turns out, the Legion was a group of killers—four members to be exact—with two males and two females. No one knew any of their names or roles in their gam of sharks, but the knowledge that they were ruthless and quick on their feet caught on fast.

Jake stumbled out of the fog, tripping up on his feet as he grumbles curses beneath his breath. You scramble up from a log and rush to his side, worry fueling the erratic beating of your heart. His hand feeds into a large gash along the stretch of his stomach, red muddying the green of his top. Without asking, you pry his palm away from the wound and snag his shirt upward. A hiss tears through his teeth, which grind in pain.

The frayed edges of the stab wound have begun to stitch back together, the Entity’s magical needle healing what should be a life-threatening cut. Blood paints his torso, stomach muscles flexing with his every sharp intake of breath. You study Jake’s wound until the last of it is healed before retreating with a sheepish smile, hands folded atop your chest.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, concern washing away.

It wasn’t often survivors returned from a trial with serious wounds. No matter the dubious amounts of torture inflicted on you and your friends, the Entity took care of what belonged to it. But seeing Jake, hobbled over, still bleeding profusely at the campfire, had frightened you. An ugly sense of uneasiness still churns in your stomach.

Jake waves you off with a lighthearted chuckle.

“It’s alright.”

He straightens his posture, then rolls his aching shoulders and neck as his body has finished repairing itself. Wisps of dark hair brush over his eyes, a harsh bruise bold on his jaw. A yawn splits his lips then, but you’re still waiting for more, even though you’re not sure what “more” entitles. When you shuffle your feet, he takes notice of your lingering presence and cocks a brow.

“Who did that to you?” You asked, but not out of curiosity or anger. It was more of a means to build a conversation. Jake doesn’t seem to take note of your odd behavior.

“One of the Legion,” he shrugs. “The one with the skull mask.”

A needle pokes your spine. You shudder.

“I hate that one. He’s the scariest Legion member I’ve met.”

Jake shakes his head, and for the first time in a long time, a funny sort of grin splits his lips. A pen of disbelief marks his tone: “Are you kidding? By far, the most intimidating one is the girl with the smiling mask. She clearly has some pent-up anger she’s working through.”

You hadn’t had the “honor” of encountering that said member of the Legion yet, but the way Jake had described her made you laugh anyhow. That’s something Jake did a lot lately—made you smile—even if he didn’t mean to. You’d found yourself enjoying his company more than most. Maybe it was his calm, collected demeanor, or the fact that he never seemed to care when you became swept up in a whirlwind of thoughts. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because, when Jake smiled, it made you feel special. A look he reserved specifically for you and on the best occasions.

“What’s so scary about him?” Jake abruptly asked. 

“Oh, uh,” You scratch at your cheek, glancing away. For a moment, you’d forgotten what the two of you were talking about. “He’s just so quiet, you know? He’s not angry, or cocky, or merciful. He’s like a machine, I guess.”

“Yeah. I’ve never heard him speak once.”

Jake gives a nod of understanding, then leads you over to the fire where the two of you settle down on a log together. His knee bumps yours, there’s warmth in your chest, and a quiet sense of contentment sets upon you. Bill dives into a story about his time in Vietnam and you listen through an unwavering smile. 

* * *

The Coldwind Farm lived up to its name as it was cold and windy and definitely a farm. You’re crouched in a field of rotting produce, nose poking out between two ears of corn; stare burned into a body strung up on a hook. The moonlight glistens in Claudette’s tears as they streak her cheeks. A knife wound on her thigh drips blood onto the dry soil below.

The coast had been clear for a while now, the killer having stalked off to chase new prey. Or, at least, you had hoped so. The sigh that slips out of you trembles, heart shuddering in anticipation when you slip from the cover of the corn stalks. You hurry across the open area, vulnerable, and reach Claudette’s side with a breath of relief. She squirms on the hook, cautious eyes watching your blind spots for you. Hooking your hands beneath her armpits, you hoist her body from the metal with a heavy groan.

“Thank you.” Claudette’s voice is barely audible, still splintered by lingering shockwaves of pain.

“No prob—“

“Gotcha.”

The third voice had come out of the blue. Stern hands grip onto your shoulders from behind. Claudette spins around and hobbles off. Her expression is a pitiful “ _sorry_ ” when she glances over her shoulder before disappearing around the bend of the ramshackle farmhouse. An ice-cold blade has found purchase against your throat, warm body pressed up against you from behind. You’re paralyzed, every muscle in your body stricken with fear.

No matter how many times you’ve found yourself in a similar situation, the thought of death still strikes unwavering terror within you. One of these days you’re going to get killed and you won’t wake up.

With his knife as a guide, the killer turns you around to face him, then backs you up against the splintered post of the hook. His mask is weathered with age and abuse, a rough grin of insanity painted onto the pale wood. The dark ink of a tattoo peeks out from beneath the collar of his leather jacket alongside a gold chain. You squint, glare pinned to the piece of jewelry. Deep within the recesses of your soul, something stirs. Some part of you knows that necklace.

“I haven’t seen you before.” His voice is muffled beneath the mask, but raw and deep.

You don’t talk, afraid it would push the blade further into your skin. 

Your eyes dart to “his”, however, when he begins to list off your physical attributes from the color of your hair to the fit of your attire. When all is said and done, he eases back with a cock of his head. A smirk colors his words: “I think you’re the one she was talking about.”

“Who?” You manage to force out, wincing when the blade nicks your throat.

He ignores you. “Your name Y/n?”

The _no_ is stitched into your tongue. The idea of giving your name to any stranger, let alone one with a knife to your throat, is something you aren’t fond of. But then his words begin to set in. Your wide gaze darts around his mask—the materials used held a sense of familiarity. Pink hair, stitch mask, and a school-girl skirt resurfaces. _Susie_. This must be another member of the Legion.

“Well?” He snapped. He pushes harder against you, pinning your head to the beam behind it with a nudge of his knife. Your heart pounds against your ribcage and your throat’s been sanded with ragged, heavy breaths.

“Ye-Yeah.”

“Don’t you lie to me.”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“I’m not.”

There’s a beat and then the cool of metal is retracted from your neck. The Legion lets out a bark of laughter at the incredulous look upon your face; shoulders jostling, his head tilted to the side. He pockets his blade, and although you know better, for a split second, you think you might be safe.

Gloved hands yank you up by the armpits. Searing hot pain stabs through your shoulder; a gutted gasp slammed against your ribcage. Your brain powers off. The Legion unsheathes the hunting knife again. It dances around his palms, glinting beneath the pale glow of a full moon.

“Sorry babe, I still have a job to do. But don’t think I’m not grateful for what you did for Susie, because I am.”

“If this i-is your way of showing yo-your thanks, I’d hate to-to see you mad.”

You squirm on the hook, trying to push yourself upward. The air seems thinner up here—you struggle to breathe, whimpering. The hook grates against the open wound as you fight to get more oxygen.

The Legion chuckled, then shook his head. “I’m not known for being all sunshine and rainbows if that’s what you mean.”

He’s surprisingly…Human. And that bothered you. In a weird sense, you found it more comforting when the things trying to kill you were of the supernatural. Screeching phantoms, grotesque creatures brought back from the dead. It wasn’t as scary then, as opposed to knowing that people just like you— _humans_ with thoughts, feelings, and emotions—were capable of such evil. It only served to remind you of your friends and family from before the Entity. It made you question them, wondering if they could be just as vicious and violent as the killers you’d met in this realm. Did you ever really know them at all?

Humanity has always been capable of great horrors, but you never had to confront that fact until now. And it scared you shitless.

“Anyway,” The Legion taps his blade against his mask. “I’ve got things to do. People to sacrifice, hopes to crush, you know.” He turns his back to you, then stops. In an almost friendly gesture, the Legion gives a wave goodbye. 

“Hang in there,” He joked, then disappeared within the cornfield. A shadow stalking the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DW, this fic is Frank centered but I have to throw in some Jake feels too, you know?


	3. They Call Her Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a wonderful Valentines!

“Do you ever go into the forest?”

Kate’s question caught you off guard. Your stare was blank, aimed at the nicks and scars that littered your hands. The crackle of the fire filled in the following quiet. You clear your throat, pulling away from your thoughts when you turn to face her. A single blond curl dangles over her forehead, the rest of her bangs pushed back behind her ears. Kate’s eyes are wide like a fawn’s. Curious.

You give a noncommittal shrug.

“No. It’s not safe.”

Her gaze chases yours, and in an attempt to throw her off your trail, you curl into yourself and duck your head. Your answer wasn’t a definite truth. It was more of a chewed up re-hashing of what the other survivors had warned you of several times before. You’d never witnessed the dangers, nor stepped foot past the fencing of shrubbery. What lay beyond those shadow-crept pines was as much of an enigma to you as it was to Kate.

You had been tempted to enter, though. The trees would whisper to you, the wind would tug you closer to the woods. Deep down, you knew it was nothing but your desire and overactive imagination working together to get you in trouble. But still, a part of you couldn’t help but wonder why you felt so drawn to the darkness. It was taboo, and over time, your curiosity had faded. Sometimes, though, you still find your stare frozen upon the charred, spindle branches. 

Kate glances around the fire, then over her shoulder before scooching closer to you. Her thighs press together, body angled in your direction when her head dips low. Her whisper is a ghost against the shell of your ear.

“I went in.”

Her vagueness takes a moment to resonate with you. Your eyes widen, lips blown apart. She takes one look at the guffawed expression you’ve made and giggles.

“I was bored,” Kate grinned into the palm of her hand. Elbow resting upon her knee. “And David’s constant flirting was starting to get on my nerves, so I snuck off after a trial. I don’t think anyone noticed, and if they had, nobody’s said anything to me.”

“What was it like?”

“Quiet, spooky, but peaceful. It was nice to just have a moment to myself, you know. I even got to sing a little.”

“There were no…” You gnawed on your lip. “Killers?”

She shakes her head, strawberry blond curls tickling her nose.

“I didn’t see any. But the forest did start to become more and more familiar as I went on. I think I may have even stumbled upon the Huntresses’ cabin. It looks exactly like it does in trials. Just as miserable.”

You sit back then and bounce your knee. When the survivors said the Entity’s forest was dangerous, you sort of always thought that it had something to do with the killers. That theory became more prominent in your mind the first time you saw one of them stalking the campfire, unwilling to step foot out into the open as he lurked in the shadows. It had been the Hillbilly. You’re not sure what he wanted. All you remember is the fear that had run rampant through your veins as you watched him watching you. It was the first time you thought the campfire to be unsafe, and the question sprang to mind: _could they kill you outside of trials?_

You never found out as the Hillbilly eventually shouldered his chainsaw before turning around to lumber himself back to where he came from. Since then, a few more killers came around, but they all remained hidden beneath the shadows of the forest. They never spoke, nor attacked, nor tried to interact with any of the survivors. They just watched. And over time you understood that maybe they were lonely. It was the most comforting conclusion you could come to.

“It was nice to have some time to myself, but I don’t think I can keep going out there.”

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“I can’t really describe it. The forest just felt _off_...almost like it’s sick or something. I didn’t feel like myself in there—” Kate abruptly stiffens. Sirens screech in your mind accompanied by red flashing lights. You whirl around on instinct, only for your heart to settle at the sight of Feng Min.

“Whatcha whispering about?” She asked in a near sing-song voice.

You shuffle over on the log to make room for Min, clammy hands finding purchase in the dip of your lap. Kate shoots the other a forced, eager smile. The previous conversation vanishes in a puff of smoke.

“Oh, nothing much,” Kate said. “I was just telling (Y/n) about how hot David looks in his new outfit.”

You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, a grin working its way onto your face. Min’s interest is quick to wain, a pout tugging at her chapped lips.

"That’s it?” She asked. “Gross.”

You and Kate laugh in sync, a nervousness working its way into your chuckle.

Min could keep a secret, but since it was Kate’s, you stayed quiet. When the two girls dive into a conversation about their latest trial with the Doctor, something tugs at the back of your mind. A funny sensation. A whisper in your ear. You cast a glance over your shoulder at the woods looming behind you. The peak of a hood pokes out from behind a bush and a stitched-up mask follows. Your throat closes in on itself.

Susie waves.

* * *

You were supposed to be helping Jake with this generator, but no matter how many times you shook your head and willed yourself to try and focus, your efforts were futile. Susie plagued your mind as you tried to come up with a way for you to sneak off to go talk to her. The wires hissed in your hands, a glowing pulse, and then you’re thrown backward with the force of an explosion. Jake lands on his back beside you, panting breathlessly. 

He pulls himself upward, brushing off the soot from his jacket.

“This is the second time—“

“I know, I know!” You snapped.

His mouth slams shut. The uncomfortable sensation of guilt claws up your stomach. Jake extends a hand out to you then, and you accept, shaking your head while he hoists you from the filthy ground. You hadn’t meant to be mean to him.

“Sorry,” You whispered.

“Don’t worry about it.”

With the looming threat of the Clown, no doubt on his way to you now, Jake grabs your hand and brings you from the room with the generator. The soles of your shoes scuff over the cobblestone flooring of the Chapel. A broken stained glass window illuminates your shadowy figures as you dart to the second-floor banister. It’s broken, the rusted fencing peeled halfway down the staircase. Jake tries to spot the Clown below while you hide behind cluttered debris.

With a sigh of relief, Jake crouches in front of you. His voice is barely audible, yet somehow still echoes against the concrete walls of the Chapel: “He must be on fairgrounds; otherwise he’d be here by now.”

You give an impartial nod. You don’t agree nor disagree. All you know is that you’re scared.

The two of you creep down the rickety staircase, not willing to take your chances with the previous hiding spot. Jake’s hand is large, warm, and a comfort clasped over yours. The pad of his thumb swipes along the back of your palm in soothing motions; a saving grace with the bundle of nerves you’ve become.

He holds a finger to his lip, then cautiously pries a locker open. When he motions for you to hurry on inside, you comply, cramming your body into the tight space as much as possible. Jake turns to find another locker, but something frightening lurches inside of you. Your fingers latch onto his sleeve. When he turns to you, his bushy brows are knitted together. You don’t waste time, however, when a rough, hacking cough can be heard in the distance. You pull Jake inside with you, and he drags the door shut behind him.

Hot waves of breath fan down your face. Your beating chests are flush together, noses an inch apart. Every ounce of space in the locker is taken up. Your heart is beating ferociously in your throat; hands slick with perspiration and your flesh is hotter than the sun. You watch, almost in fascination, when Jake’s mouth pulls into a breathless smile.

You can already hear the sly comment he’s dying to make. With a roll of your eyes, you huff: “Don’t tease me.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

The impish glint in his eyes begs to differ. Jake’s shoulders slump forward then, and you’re surprised he’s let his guard down so quickly. Another hacking fit shatters the moment. Your entire body tenses, eyes searching through the dust infiltrated dark. Jake holds your concerned stare, bated breaths shared between you. It felt like an eternity before another wet, phlegm-coated cough could be heard, this one further away than before. All at once, you feel like it’s okay to breathe again. Your hand creeps toward the locker door but Jake stops you, fingers wrapped around your wrist. 

“Wait, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

Your stare is expectant. He shrinks back, and in a strange, uncharacteristic turn of events, Jake seems nervous. He’s always been the one to take the lead, to calm the others when they’ve reached their breaking point. You’ve never before seen him fidget or fiddle out of anxiousness. He does now, though, shuffling his feet in place. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek and spare a fleeting glimpse between the slits in the locker door, searching for any oncoming danger. No one seems to be around.

Jake’s touch is delicate when the pads of his fingers drag down your inner wrist to curl around the palm of your hand. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze in response, everything in you curious as to what he’s about to say. After a beat, he shakes his head, then draws in a rough breath. You can tell he’s battling with himself, the _just spit it out already dummy!_ imprinted into his sharp features.

“Look, I—“

The locker door flies open. A gloved hand shoots forward, latching onto your upper arm with an iron grip. You’re yanked from Jake’s arms and into the jagged metal of a butterfly knife, the blade buried hilt deep into your stomach. The knife slid out of you with a sickening, wet sound. The wound _screamed_ , and you fell to the ground, clutching at your abdomen with numb, trembling hands.

The Clown’s heavy breathing fills the quiet. A slow, menacing smile creeps onto a painted face.

“Lookie-Lou, I think I caught myself a couple of nesting birdies.” The clown sang, voice like nails on a chalkboard.

You grimace, wet crimson slicking your hands. A pool of blood, thick and filthy, has begun to spread beneath your crumpled form. The liquid spurts out of the wound in sickening, slow gurgles. Jake’s skin is pallid, awash with white fear, and he has to force himself to pay attention to the cackling killer. His jaw ticks, glare like poison when he sets his sights on the grotesque form of the Clown.

But there’s nowhere for Jake to go—he’s cornered, trapped within the cramped confines of the locker. His only way out is through the blood-stained man before him.

Through the tears in your eyes, you raise your head in hopes of finding something, _anything_ , that could help Jake out. A pallet sits not too far off from where you lay. It’s risky and near stupid, but it’s all you’ve got. As crimson dribbles down your chin, you grit your teeth, beginning to crawl towards it. You reach out, dig your fingernails into the cracks of the tiled flooring, and with everything in you, drag your body across the floor. Worry consumes you when you hear Jake grunt in pain, but you keep going.

You make it about a foot away from the pallet—arms stretched out, bloodied fingers wiggling desperately—when a heavy weight presses into your back.

“Where do you think you’re going, _birdie?_ ”

The clown releases a guttural cackle. He removes his boot and turns you over onto your back. You gasp for air, only for the fucking freak to sit on you. You scream; the wound in your stomach stretching. His bloated beer belly rests atop you, his legs spread wide and bunched at an odd angle; crotch in your face. A rank odor like urine burns your nostrils.

You crane your sore neck and lift your head, trying to catch a glimpse of Jake. He’s slumped on the ground, fingers hovering over a bleeding thigh, his features strained with agony. When you make eye-contact, Jake latches onto the handle of the locker and forces himself up with a pained grunt. The vein in his temple bulges, face beet red, but he’s made it to his feet. Your heart races with adrenaline.

You glance back at the Clown only to find his signature knife angled above your head. His coughing echoes around in the Chapel, yellow phlegm splattering against your cheek.

“Night-night, toots.” He grinned.

You gulped.

The knife slammed into your throat.

* * *

You awoke amid the Entity’s fog, ashy tendrils still swirling around your limp form. The glow of the fire is set off into the distance, light chatter a welcome gift to your ears. Nobody seemed to have noticed your arrival yet. Well, almost nobody.

The hiss had come from behind you, hushed enough to go undetected by the others. You roll over on your side, and then make a slow crawl from the ground, muscles still aching from the effects of the trial. Remembering the Clown’s stupid-ass cheery grin, your fingertips ghost over your neck. The wound has vanished, nothing but a lingering stickiness and a phantom pain.

You had lain there, convulsing, choking on your blood.

Tears gloss over your eyes, your bottom lip trembling. For all the horrors you’d experienced here, that was terrifying.

"Hey,” They hissed again. You’d forgotten all about the voice in the bushes.

Susie’s head pops out from behind the leafy green and she beckons you over with a wave. You double-check that no one’s spotted you yet before crawling over to her, body concealed by the large trunk of a tree. You wipe the tears that had sprung with the back of your hand, then offer a watery smile.

“Oh my gosh,” Susie began to squeal, but you hushed her with frantic hands. “Oops, sorry. I’m just so excited to see you again!”

She rushes forward to throw her arms around you, and you find your cheek pressed against her shoulder. This is the first time in a long time that you’ve been held. She’s so _warm_ , and the way her hands gently comb over your back has the waterworks springing to life again. You bite hard onto your lip to prevent a sob from spilling, but the dam bursts, anyway. Susie holds you tighter. You feel a little silly when she begins to rock your body back and forth, making whispers of comfort in your ear like you would soothing a baby. But you can’t bring yourself to pull from her embrace.

“What you must think of me,” You snort, cheek smooshed against her hoodie.

You feel her shake her head.

“I think you’re amazing.”

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Jake’s voice carried over to the forest.

The banter around the campfire ceases. You can almost hear the question marks and puzzled expressions forming. You tense. If they find you here, they’ll take you away from Susie, and you’re far from ready to leave the comfort of her arms. The two of you keep quiet. Her chin moves to rest atop the crown of your head.

“She should be back by now.”

Jake’s worry eats away at your heart. What was left unsaid between the two of you tugs at your brain.

A few of the survivors grumble out that they hadn’t seen you—you’re grateful for that. Maybe they’ll assume you were dragged off into another trial. 

You and Susie hold your breath until the survivors return to their previous conversation. Jeffrey spills the details about his life before the Entity, something you didn’t want to miss, but there wasn’t a promise that Susie would ever come back. So, you keep still, but gently pry yourself from the hug.

“Sorry about that,” You said, then brushed away the drying water marks on your cheek.

“It’s fine. Honestly, I don’t know how you guys do it. I don’t like hurting people, but I’ve never been good at handling pain.” You can hear the smile in her voice, something bashful, but honest. Susie’s a cutie through and through.

“I told Frank to go easy on you,” She mumbled then. “He said he hooked you near the end and that was it.”

You quirk a brow and pinch your mouth into a thin line. _Who?_ She studies your expression carefully before continuing.

“The farm? He hooked you.”

You try and think back, eyes dancing back and forth as you rack your brain in search of any answers. But then you remember _the necklace._ Your spine straightens out, fingers curled around clumps of overgrown grass. When you give a nod in understanding, she perks up.

“So, he did play nice. Yay!” Susie moves to clap her hands together but you latch onto her wrists before she can, and lead her arms back to her side. She gives a sheepish shrug, a giggle spilling from her lips.

“Is…Uhm,” You weren’t sure how to ask your next question; gaze cast to the ground below. You’d been so caught up in the moment that you completely forgot where you were—inside the forbidden forest. With the point of your finger, you begin to draw mindless shapes into the soil. “His, er. Where did he get that necklace? _Frank._ ”

His name tasted funny on your tongue. The image of his mask filled you with unease.

“The locket?” Confusion marred her voice. “I’m not sure, to be honest. He’s always worn it. I’ve never ever seen him take it off. _Why?_ ”

Her question sends you into a state of silence. You didn’t have an answer for her. Not one that made sense, at least. A hunch, an incessant nibbling on your mind, a lack of memories, an unshakeable feeling that you _knew_ that locket—none of those things were easily explained, and to be honest, you didn’t have the energy in you to, either. So, you wrap your arms around yourself and shrug.

“It’s pretty,” You said.

“It is. There’s a rose on the front, too. I wish I knew where he got it from, though, or what pictures are inside.”

You wanted to know too. Your soul craved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a bit choppy, my one brain cell quit on me while editing.


	4. The Wrong Point of View

Despite the enormous holes in the roof, the fallen beams, the snow dusting every bit of abandoned furniture—Mount Ormund was home to the Legion—more so than anywhere else, in their old world and the next. When returning from the trials, or a walk in the Entity’s forest, Susie always got a kick at the sight of _their_ lodge. Just as they had left it. And because the Entity had brought it here, she figured whatever it was (black tendrils, a dashing shadow) couldn’t be so bad.

The front door had been beaten in by the ruthless winds and Susie went on right inside; pep in her step, warmth spread through every inch of her body. Julie’s head pops up at the sound of shuffling feet but she doesn’t stop in her ministrations of drawing on Joey’s back.

Her finger made a sweeping motion on the onyx hoodie when she remarked: “Have fun with your new pet?”

“Oh my gosh, stop~”

Susie bursts into giggles, tripping up on her own feet. She stumbles her way over to a slanted, 70s floral printed sofa before plopping her ass down on the gaudy orange cushions. Dusts of snow lace the long ruined suede. The sound of heavy footsteps trots on the floor above, Frank appearing behind the banister. With a grunt, he heaves himself over the railing and drops down, boots landing on the cold floorboards with an echoing bang.

“Show-off,” Julie huffed beneath her breath.

Frank rolled his shoulders, then hopped over the back of the sofa to sit next to Susie. She kicks her snowy boots up to plant them on his lap, only to be shoved to the floor. Ripping off her mask, her grin is all teeth and gums. Susie cackles. Frank can't help but roll his eyes at her, fighting back a lazy smile of his own. He places his hands behind his head with a sigh and burrows his glare into the water-stained wallpaper of the resort. Peeling paint isn't much for entertainment, though.

“Wish we had a TV or something in here.”

“Or some comic books,” Joey said.

“Shush,” Julie climbs up from the floor, wood whimpering beneath her feet as she comes over to Susie. She plants her hands on the back of the couch and then leans forward. Mask off to reveal the smirk that’s carved into her round cheeks. “Suz, how did things go with _your_ little survivor?”

Frank’s head tilts in Susie’s direction. “The one that helped you?” He asked.

She gives a rapid nod. “Yeah, that one.”

“What’s so special about her anyway?”

“I don’t know…She’s nice.”

“If nice is all she’s got going for her, I can point you in the direction of a snowman out back that’s just as friendly.”

Susie pauses, lips tightening into a shy frown. She tries not to let Frank get to her, but sometimes it’s hard when he seemed to be stitched together by the threads of sarcasm and animosity. He was a good guy, though; she tried to remind herself of that as often as she could. And he did abide by her wishes not to hurt you…Her face lights up with joy again, thinking about the hug you two shared in the woods.

“(Y/n) asked about your locket,” Susie said.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Gloved fingers reach upward to hook around the chin of Frank’s mask, and he removes it in dramatic timing. His scarred brows have pulled together, eyes nothing but slits as he stares down at the girl on the floor. Susie brings her knees to her chest in response, the artificial cold of Mount Ormund a lot chillier than it had been before.

“She what?”

Despite the hardening of his features, there’s an inescapable wonder coloring his voice. The shock evident in the way his tone had softened at the end, becoming a clipped whisper. Frank’s fists rest in his lap; the leather squeaks as he begins to clench and unclench his hands in an attempt to expel some of the newfound nervousness that’s seeped into his form.

“Why?” He pressed further.

“I don’t know. She said she thought it was pretty.”

Frank sits back at that, shoulders slumped with a heavy weight. For a split second, he had allowed himself to be excited. A cold tension threads itself through his features and he sets his mask back in place once more. Nobody dares to move, to sigh, to breathe as they wait for their leader to shed some light on what the fuck had just happened. But Frank says nothing. Instead, he kicks his feet up onto a knocked-over crate and heaves an empty sigh.

“It is pretty, isn’t it?”

His hand has crawled its way up to his throat without him even realizing it, fingers fiddling with the gold chain. His Adams apple bobs. It’s become apparent to everyone in the room that something is amiss. That that locket meant more to him than they’ll ever really know. It only served to solidify what they already knew—that Frank Morrison is an enigma. A puzzle that would take an eternity to crack.

“Frank. You okay?” Joey asked.

Frank gave a slow, distracted nod. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just peachy.” 

His fist enclosed around the locket and never let go.


	5. Liar, Liar

The Entity’s forest had become your obsession once more. After every trial, you’d linger for as long as you could near the thresh waiting for a small hiss, or wave, or giggle to arise from the bushes. But Susie didn’t visit again, and after a while, you returned to your old habits of sulking by the campfire. Always with dirt smeared over your skin and a heavy disappointment in your heart. Susie was fun, albeit animated at times, but _ fun  _ nevertheless. Befriending a killer had made you feel…special, not that you would ever admit it.

Your feet blurred beneath you. Creeping, claw branches tear at the skin of your shoulders, bleeding cuts scattered along your arms and back. The snap of a twig within the Red Forest had sent your body into overdrive, and you hadn’t stopped running since. You charge through a bush. The Huntress’ shack, left in crumbling ruins, is just up ahead. Thorns snag on your forearms, ripping new wounds. You grit your teeth, biting back gasps of pain.

Stopping now would mean death—the footsteps chasing after you promised that.

Your body lurches forward. You choke on a scream. Raw waves of pain shoot up from your ankle, twisted beneath the stern hold of a lifted root. When a bitter, metallic taste floods your mouth, it’s only then that the agony of your throbbing tongue surfaces. A forceful whimper swims through the blood, pushing past your lips, which you immediately sew back shut.

You can’t make a noise.

The killer is still out there.

Fingernails digging into the rough soil, mind still jumbled from the whirlwind fall; you try and lift your torso. The wounded ankle screams in protest. You go limp like a doll. When you raise your cheek from the dirt—panicked stare darting about the fog immersed forest—this time, a pair of scuffed leather boots block the view.

Rapid breaths rack your aching body. With wide, trembling eyes, your stare climbs up the stranger at the pace of a sloth. Weathered, dark jeans and a grass-stained sweatshirt zipped tight to his neck—you blink. For a moment, all signs pointed to him being a member of the Legion until you saw a face. Small, glassy eyes fill you with immeasurable relief. Your mouth creaks upward. A single strip of blood spills down your chin. You hope your tongue still works.

“You good?” He asked. 

His throat sounded as if it had been stuffed with gravel. A shiver courses up your spine.

Sharp, angular features take form when your sight clears; a crooked nose (the product of one too many fistfights), and thin, chapped lips. A scar cuts through his right brow. His hair is a rough mess, choppy, uneven strands cut short by blunt scissors. His hood is pulled far over his head, however, casting shadows across his face.

The metal of his lip piercing winks in the blue light of the moon.

“Hello? Earth to…?”

“Uh,” You will yourself to try and speak with a useless, chewed-up tongue. It hurts to talk, but not unbearably so. “I’m not sure if I can walk.”

He grimaced when blood and spit came gushing from your mouth. It stains the dirt beneath you and shines purple in the night.

“Maybe don’t talk,” he said, lowering into a crouch.

His skin is warm against yours, bowed fingers taking you by the arm to help ease you into a sitting position. The world spins the more you move, but the urge to throw up soon subsides. With your hurt leg stretched out in front of you and the other tucked beneath your thigh, you lean over to spit the rest of the blood out. It splatters in the grass, closer to him than to you, and a feverish heat creeps up your neck. But at least your tongue has stopped bleeding.

You drag your wrist over your mouth, and then ask: “Is this your first trial?”

It had to be. You’ve never seen him at the campfire or otherwise before.

He seems confused, head tilting to the side. “Is that what this is?”

You nod before attempting to climb onto your feet. The two of you needed to get out of here. Where you’re huddled now is open, vulnerable, and sticking around would only be asking for death. As if in agreement, the trees groan, swaying to the blustery winds. Your ankle bends, legs buckling beneath you in an instant. The new survivor rushes forward, picking your arm up and slinging it around his shoulder.

You shoot him a smile in thanks, which he forces himself to return. 

He’s oddly calm for the horrors he’s no doubt already witnessed, especially since the first half of the trial had been _ gruesome _ . You’re not sure who the killer is, or what’s stalling them now, but screams and moans of pain had ravaged the Red Forest earlier on. Whoever the Entity had sent to hunt you and your friends this time around had been ruthless and quick on their feet. Only a little while ago had things begun to quiet down. The newbie is the only survivor you’d seen since the start of the match. Everyone else must be dead.

“What’s your name? I’m (Y/n),” You asked, hobbling beside him. 

His legs are longer than yours and you can tell he wants to hurry on out of here. You don’t blame him. Not only is this his first trial ever in a gore infested line of many, but now he’s stuck with you, latched onto him like a leech. What a great first impression. 

He chuckles. When he shakes his head, you can’t help the way your brows pull together.

“I can’t really remember…Is that weird?” 

_ Oh _ .

The sudden melancholy that washed over you was surprising, yet obvious at the same time. He’s like you. A mist buries your gaze. 

“Don’t worry,” You said. “It’ll come to you eventually.”

“You alright?” 

You nod, but don’t dare to speak. He seems to understand and drops it.

In contrast to the withered and decayed exterior, the inside of the cabin is, in a word, homie. Or, more or less,  _ lived in _ . Animal skins covered in years of must are nailed to the wall and crumpled on the putrefied floorboards. Handcrafted furniture had been broken in an earlier struggle. A red handprint is smeared across a rock wall. It’s not hard to guess that the print belongs to the same person whose blood is pooled on the floor in thick gabs.

You spread your hand against his chest, forcing him to stop in the doorway.

“It’s not safe here,” You whispered.

“Where  _ is  _ safe in this hell hole?”

_ Nowhere _ , the Entity made sure of that, but you bite back the grim comment anyhow and nudge him back outside. You’re breathing hard, paranoia warping your mind and sense of direction. Why hasn’t the killer found you yet? What’s taking so long? Where are the others? By now, you should have at least caught a glimpse of _ someone _ , whether it’s a friend or foe. But the two of you remain alone.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

He started to lower into a crouch behind a pile of stacked wood, easing you onto the cold ground. A hiss slips out of you when the pain in your ankle flares, then subsides. He towers above you.

“There’s nobody here but us,” he spoke with confidence. “And I’m tired.”

“Just…Keep watch. Okay?”

He gave a stiff nod. Every few minutes or so, he’d glance over the top of the woodpile, but his checks became less and less frequent soon enough. He’s been tapping his foot for a while now, and you’d caught his glare peering into your hunched form a couple of times. He wants to say something. He just needs to spit it out already.

“What was your life like before all this?”

He spreads his arms and gestures to the eerie woods. 

You’re not sure how much he knows, but he seems rather accustomed to the dangers of the trial—nonchalant, even. Maybe he had bumped into another survivor before you and they explained the rules of this world. If not that, he must be one of those reckless bastards terrified of vulnerability. The type who preferred death over anyone knowing that they’re scared shitless. Kind of like David. You smile, wishing you were back at the campfire.

His abrupt question has you faltering, though, and you run a distracted hand through your matted hair.  


“My memory is fuzzy at best,” You sighed. “But there are some things I remember. Like a few of my old friends and snippets of my high school years. I can remember graduating if that counts for something. But the one person I remember most is my mom. I guess we were pretty close.”

He nods; expression utterly unreadable.

“Did she,” He pauses to think, or re-word whatever he’s trying to say. “I dunno—leave you something of value? Like jewelry or something...”

“What?”

Your eyes narrow. He shuffles his feet, then affords a glance over his shoulder. When he freezes in place, shoulders hunched to his neck, your mind blanks with fear, and it only grows the second you lock eyes. With slow movements, he slips his hands from his front pockets, then jerks his head in the direction of something behind the woodpile.

“I think I saw something. I’m gonna go look.”

“No! Don’t—”

He disappeared around the bend. You’re left on the ground, arm outstretched and hand shaking.

“What the  _ fuck?  _ ” You seethed.

Splinters embed themselves into your palm while you use the mountain of chopped wood as support, lifting yourself from the hard ground and being very careful not to put any pressure you couldn’t afford on your bad ankle. A cold wind whistles against your ear. The sky is an oil spill of inky nothingness. You’re alone. 

“Where do you think you’re going?”

You jump in surprise, tripping up on your legs. Your butt hits the ground with a hard ache. A stone the size of your fist lodges in your lungs at the sight of a leather jacket and sadistic mask. You scramble backward, spasms of pain paralyzing your hurt leg. It’s an amusing sight to him, however. The smirk in his voice is like a slap to the face.

“I been looking for you,” Legion said. Stained hunter’s knife raised near his head.

“Shit. Fuck!”

You squirm when he crawls atop of you, finding purchase upon your hips. The trial with the Clown came flooding back full force. A strangled wheeze escapes. Your fingernails dig into the denim of his thighs.

“Susie rubbing off on you?” He asked, leaning forward. With a gloved hand, he snatches your chin, then squishes your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. His laugh is humorless as he places his knife between your teeth. The blade is stained with the blood of your friends. “What a nasty tongue. Maybe I should cut it out for you.”

The locket falls around his neck, dangling an inch from your nose. The heart shape is cliché—the decorative rose even cheaper looking—but the moment your glare sets upon it, your heart _ sings _ . Your fingertips skim over the icy metal. The Legion recoils, drawing his blade from your mouth. A string of saliva clings to the knife, then breaks, falling down your chin.

“So,” he straightens up atop of you. “You  _ do  _ know it. How?”

You shake your head, tearing your stare from the locket.

“I, I don’t remember.”

“Bullshit.”

When the knife finds its way digging into your throat, you’re not surprised. A sting wells beneath it, but in comparison to everything you suffered through tonight, the discomfort is a mere afterthought. The longer you stay silent, the harder he pushes the blade. In a short burst of frustration, you wrap your hand around Legion’s wrist—a fruitless attempt to pry him away.

“Answer me you fucking cunt! How do you know it?”

“I don’t know!” You shouted back.

He pulled away with an angry sigh. In one sweeping motion, he raises the knife and stabs it into your stomach. You shriek, batting helplessly at his arms from where they force the blade further into your guts. When he jerks his knife from your body, you’re left writhing beneath him.

It was, in a sense, like a wave of understanding had come over him and washed the fury away. He laughs. 

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot,” He said. “Your memory is  _ fuzzy at best _ .”

The point of his knife digs into your chest, right above where your heart pounds obnoxiously against your ribcage. Your breathing is labored, eyes widened in disbelief. Your fingers hook under the exposed threads of his ripped jeans. His scheme should have been obvious—you wanted to take his knife and finish the job yourself.

“Fuck. You. Frank,” Your voice shatters when the tip of his knife presses inside of you.

The anger radiates off of him—it’s felt in the wavering shake of his grip, the clench of his jaw—it fuels his knife when it plunges through your ribcage.

“Fuck you too, babe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this chapter, so. ashjfjkfbflfs


	6. Curiosity Killed the Cat

In a strange turn of events, Susie had been your source of comfort when you needed it, and oddly enough, you wished the killer would sneak back over to visit you again. But she never did, and your exhausted brain had conjured up a plethora of reasons as to why she hadn’t—none of them good. Had she already grown bored of you? Was the Entity punishing her for interacting with a survivor? The answers remained unclear.

You were tired of the mystery of this place. And as it seemed, if you wanted answers to your questions, you’d just have to go out and find them yourself.

The survivors sat around the campfire tonight were sparse, nearly everyone had been swept off into a trial. Kate bounces her knee beside you, gnawing on her thumbnail, face warped with the worst kind of agony—boredom. Jane Romero, the newest survivor to enter this Hellscape sits across from you with a hard expression. She had materialized at the campfire a while ago, still innocent to the ways of this world and the sacrificial trials. And when you and Kate had attempted to explain to her what the hell was going on, she flat out refused to believe it, which, you suppose, was a fair reaction. A supernatural world filled with blood-thirsty monsters isn’t something that should be easily accepted. So you declined to push the topic any further. Jane would find out soon enough when the fog whisked her away like so many others.

It was only the three of you left loitering in the quiet. Nobody else around to notice if you snuck off.

With your body propped against Kate’s, your voice dropped to a whisper: “I’m going to explore the forest. Do you think you could cover for me?”

She pulled back with a full smile, the impish twinkle in her eye a promising note.

“You didn’t have to ask. But be careful. I told you, that place is weird.” Her honeyed, southern drawl never fails to make you feel good. Kate reminded you of hot summers and iced lemonade; fireworks, dancing, and flashing lights as bright as the sun.

“Hey. Your name is Jane, right?”

Jane folds her hands in her lap, legs crossed over one another. She gave a stiff nod, but the moment you stood from the ground, her squinted glare refused to leave you. Her thin brows are raised high and her lips tighten. Any moment now, she looks ready to pounce, expecting you to attack first.

“What did you do before this? Did you have a job?” Kate tried to garner Jane’s attention again.

“I’m a talk show host…”

Jane’s stare ping-pongs between the two of you, her nerves heightening, body angled in defense. She’s smart; you’ll give her that, even though you mean her no harm. The realization that she’s not going to let up her cautious stare comes to you, but if you want to ever experience the forest—it has to be now. You swivel on your heel and march into the thicket. And you don’t look back. This is it. The forest had never appeared this dark before. Any shred of light or sky grew scarcer the further you ventured on. The trees seemed to stretch like thread, growing twice the height of what they had been before. A constant fog creeps over the toes of your boots and swirls like cigarette smoke when you push through it. The shrubbery is denser, thick vines and thorns wrapped around charred tree trunks and bushes like chains.

There’s no movement in the air beneath the roof of gnarled branches and shuttering leaves. It’s damp and stuffy. The harder you fight to breathe the more suffocated you feel. An ugly course of nausea racks through you, and you think you might be sick, perspiration slicking your forehead and underarms.

Something isn’t right.

You give up and turn around—ready to return to the safety of the campfire—only to stop, heart hammering outside of your chest. Everywhere you turn, it all looks the same. Identical, even. You should have marked your path somehow, but in your panicky state, you hardly pay the notion any mind. You can’t tell which way you had been traveling and which you’d just come from.

Your mind swims, as light as a cloud.

The hatchet whizzed by your head, embedding its blade into the bark of the tree behind you. You dart, sprinting through the woods. Branches tug at your skin and hair, tearing strands of (h/c) from your scalp. Something warm can be felt on your ear, and only when you raise a cautious hand to it, do you realize you’ve been cut. Bright red smears over your fingertips. But even then, you don’t stop. Not until the grass and dirt transition into snow beneath your feet and you’re sent flying into a babbling brook.

The water is colder than ice, shocks of something akin to electricity stabbing all over your body. You’re a shivering, frantic mess by the time you drag yourself out of the stream. The snow sends pins and needles into your palms when you grapple your way onto your feet, swaying. The blood in your veins had turned to ice. You wrap your arms around yourself, desperate for a shred of warmth.

The Huntress’ form is cast in shadows, stood between two trees, hatchet gripped in a fist. She’s a statue; nothing but the shallow rise and fall of her chest to allude to the fact that she’s a living being. Her boots are homemade, just as the rest of her attire; pelt fastened together by a drawstring. Long grass is crunched beneath her feet.

She won’t cross the barrier.

From where the dirt ground transitioned to an ocean of snow, the two of you remain in a stand-off—the Huntress with a recently sharpened hatchet, and you with nothing but the soaked and frigid clothes on your back. Her eyes never leave yours, shape and color hidden beneath her rabbit mask. But then she huffs, a cloud of breath forming over her mouth, and she turns to stalk back through her territory.

You reach up and touch your bleeding ear again. The choice to venture into the Entity’s forest is proving, more and more with every second, to be one of your worst ideas yet.

With no choice but to trek through this new snowy landscape (not daring to cross back into the Red Forest), you adjust your arms around yourself, shivering compulsively, and push on.

* * *

The cold never subsided, and much to your chagrin, you found that the further you traveled, the worse it got. Harsh, blustery winds attack your huddled form from all sides, aggressive enough to toy with your body. You sway, stumbling over your feet, melted snow having soaked straight through the fabric of your shoes. You’re so desperate for shelter that by the time your surroundings begin to take shape—a clearing opened up—you don’t recognize the frosted boulders and construction equipment cluttering the space. The second your sights set on the ski lodge, you forced yourself over to it.

Your legs are more unstable than jello while you climb the molding steps of the porch; wet hair froze to your face, arms wound and locked around your chest. You had barely noticed when your teeth had begun to chatter a while back. It had never felt this cold before in any place you’d ever been to in the Entity’s realm. It was realistic in a way that made you thankful for the artificial weather during trials.

The stiff floorboards cry beneath your feet, sending echoes throughout the entire building. You slump against the open doorframe and tremble. Every ounce of strength within you has been expended. You don’t think you can take another step.

“(Y/n)?”

“What the hell?” Someone else cut in.

“So _this_ is the survivor?”

You crumple to your knees. A hard _thwack!_ sends the room spinning. Pain erupts against your temple. Black.

* * *

You blinked.

Broad, wooden beams travel across the ceiling, groans of abuse coursing through the structure. Ragged tarps hang from the fixtures; an unlit chandelier teeters back and forth. Your mind is a disorientated mess—you’re not by the campfire, you’re not in a trial. _Was it all just a dream?_ The Entity, the friends you made, all the torture? You weren’t sure of anything. Well, except for the fact that you feel heavy and cozy.

You shift and crane your head back to glance around as much as you can. Your neck is stiff. Hell, every part of you feels sore and rigid. Sleep holds an unwavering power over your fingers and legs. Your senses are slow to return, but you know you’re laying on something soft. Cushions spread beneath you when you wriggle around. Fabric wrapped around you crinkles.

You’re swaddled in a faux leather jacket, and beneath that, a gray hoodie. Your pants are still your own, though, but gloves have been slipped over your hands. _What the hell?_ A migraine pounds against your skull. When you try and lift your eyebrows, they’re matted with a sticky substance. It all feels reminiscent of your teen rebellion days. Getting drunk, blacking out, and waking up in weird, new situations. This wouldn’t be the first time you woke up to a mysterious bruise or cut.

“She’s awake.”

Your eyes broaden. It had been utterly silent. You weren’t even aware others were around. With a curl of your toes, feeling returns to your limbs in pricks and tingles, but you can move. You moan and shuffle into a sitting position, back hunched and aching.

Sat on a crate beside the armrest is a member of the Legion. The tall, built one, with the skull painted onto his knit mask. His hood is drawn up, a blade in hand as he whittles down a stick of wood. He seems to almost ignore your presence, but the way his eyes dance between you and his ministrations says otherwise. 

Another member of the Legion and Frank are stood off to the side, donned in their typical masks. Frank, though, is dressed in a simple, fitted black tee. A sleeve of ink on show. In an instant, your eyes dart to the jackets wrapped around you. You had thought them to be familiar, but in your bleary state, where you’d seen them before hadn’t occurred to you. The urge to shrug them off flares and you begin to tug your arm out of the sleeve in a panic, forgetting to unzip the front.

“Aw look at her. You scared?” The woman spoke, somehow managing to sound equally condescending and enthralled.

Searching the room, there’s no sign of Susie, and your suspicions from earlier arise. If something hadn’t happened to her, then where is she?

“Susie?” Is all you could choke out.

Frank crosses his arms over his chest, then leaned against a nearby pillar of wood. A particularly ferocious wind barrels through and the lodge shutters. A chill seeps into the thin fabric of your jeans, which are still damp, but you’re not nearly as cold as you had been before. On the brink of freezing to death. The Legion goes unfazed, though, and you wonder if that’s just another perk of being a killer. Or, perhaps, they’re just long accustomed to the icy temperatures. 

“She’s in a trial,” the other male member answered.

Disappointment settles into your gut. Your one chance to see her again and she’s out.

“What the hell were you thinking coming here?” Frank snapped.

“I thought all the survivors were too chicken to leave the fire,” Someone said.

The insult goes right above your head. All you can seem to focus on is the leather snug around your body. The mere idea of wearing _his_ clothes—the ones that had been cloaked with your blood and the blood of your friends—disgusts you. But the warmth it brings has you second-guessing shrugging it off.

“Why did you help me?” You asked, ignoring Frank’s question.

It had been bugging you since reality struck. The Legion should have left you for dead; dragged you out into the cold and tossed you into a snowbank. That’s what you would have expected them to do. Yet, here you are, curled up on their couch, fine. 

“Don’t go reading into it. The only reason I— _we_ did anything at all is because Susie would have thrown a bitch fit if we hadn’t,” Frank said. The woman beside him scoffs. You’re not sure what to make of it.

“Shut it, Julie.”

_Julie_. You’re happy to have a name to put to her “face”. Your gaze trails over to the last unknown member only to find he’d already been staring at you. His knife rests against his thigh, stick dropped to the floor, an unfinished project. For as odd and unsettling as this situation is, if they wanted to hurt you, you’re sure they would have done it by now.

“What’s your name?” The question had slipped out of you, a tinge of hesitance trailing through your words.

“Joey,” He rasped. His voice is throaty and deeper than any of the others. If it weren’t for the fact that he was a killer, you may have even considered it calming. Joey had never spoken in a trial before, but now that he had, he was less scary than you’d originally thought.

“Answer my fucking question.”

Annoyance hits you like a headache. Frank was impatient, rude, and a selfish prick. What you wouldn’t sacrifice just to give him a taste of his own medicine, but the knife hooked into the waistband of his jeans had you biting your tongue. With a huff, you wind your arms tight around you.

“I wasn’t _trying_ to find this place. I got lost.”

“What were you doing in that fucking forest in the first place?”

What _were_ you doing? The reasons had all blurred together at some point. There were few you felt like telling them, though. Saying you were curious would make you come off like an idiot, and admitting that boredom had been a pushing factor for your excursion was even worse. After a moment, all you can do is shrug. Their eyes burn into you from beneath their masks, urging you to clarify.

Footsteps thud on the porch stairs and everyone turns their head in the direction of the door, which had been forced closed sometime while you were asleep, reinforced by a stack of boxes. Frank jerks his head at the door and Joey stands without a word, walking over to remove the blockade. Someone knocks rapidly and then you hear her voice.

“Hey, who shut this thing?”

The moment the boxes have been put off to the side, the door swings open and slams against the wall, snowy wind barreling through. Susie stepped inside, then paused, an invisible question mark forming above her head. A bloody knife is clutched in her hand, but she’s quick to shove it into her sweatshirt pocket.

“(Y/n)?”

You give a small wave.

“OMG, you came to see me!”

She pounces on you in seconds, sending your back flat onto the couch cushions again. Dust shoots into the air on impact, accompanied by a musky, senior odor. But she hugs you tight and some part of you feels satisfied as you return the embrace.

“Susie,” Frank is authoritative, and he leaves no room for argument. “Knock it off and get over here.”

Her arms reluctantly snake out from beneath you, but she obeys and backtracks from the couch. She settles down next to Julie, who’s remained at attention the entire time. Body struck with acute tension.

“What’s going on?” Susie asked.

Frank opted to ignore her. Pushing off the wall, he said: “Jules, you got a smoke?”

“Yeah.”

Julie walks over to you, then stops when unease creeps through your features. She lets out a ghost of a laugh, shakes her head, leans down, and then grabs something from behind you. Teal flashes within her hand, but she’s turned away before you can get a good look. When she extends a crumpled box of cigarettes out to Frank, she glances at you.

“You want one?”

You shake your head. Susie plucked a stick from the pack before Julie pocketed them.

“Fucking blues,” Frank grumbled, digging a lighter out of his pants pocket. “The least that piece of shit Entity could do is get the good stuff.”

Survivors got perks too depending on how well they did in trials. Kate would sometimes be awarded her guitar, which allowed her to spread the comfort of music to others by the fire. Dwight would receive sci-fi comic books filled with superheroes in stretchy underpants. And you’d once been gifted a gushy romance book that you binged between trials. Sometimes, those simple gifts are the only things keeping you going.

Frank lit Susie’s cigarette first. 

“I should probably go,” You admitted when the room fell quiet.

You didn’t want to return to the cold world outside, and being with the Legion was almost refreshing in a way. Or, something new, at least. But you couldn’t stay here forever. Kate was bound to grow worried and spill the beans if the new survivor hadn’t already. There was no way to confirm how long you’d been gone for either. You could have been wandering those woods for eons and you wouldn’t have known it. The Entity’s forest had been disorientating and the black-out sure didn’t help with your time management. 

“Great. Give me my jacket back,” Frank grunted.

He’s propped his mask just above his mouth, wisps of smoke curling around his tense jaw. He sounded angry but the casual smirk stitched into his face is contradictory. He seemed almost prideful, like the fact you were wearing his clothes was some sort of badge of honor. You have to bite back a protest—all you have on beneath is a tank-top and you’re not ready to face the cold yet.

“Frank,” Joey said. “You can’t let her go like that. She literally just blacked-out because of the cold.”

Susie squirms. Worry consumes her voice: “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You stand from the couch. Your legs wobble. “You guys have done enough. Thanks.”

With hesitant baby steps, you walk over to Frank, his jackets bundled beneath your arms. The cold washes over you in waves and you’ve already begun to regret taking the protective layers off. Goosebumps litter your arms. When you extend the outerwear for him to take, though, he doesn’t move, arms crossed comfortably across his chest. There’s a beat and then he heaves a sigh of defeat.

“Put it back on,” He said.

“I’m okay.” You push the jacket into his arms. He shoves it back.

“You’re shaking.”

“Look—”

“Shut the fuck up already and just wear it.”

He carelessly plops down on the couch then, and a loud crack echoes. He sits low, thighs spread wide, and he has that _I don’t give a shit_ attitude you’re slowly becoming accustomed to.

"Suz, take her back to the campfire,” Frank ordered, taking another drag of his cigarette.

Susie skips on over to you, grinning from ear to ear. Her mask is slipped up like Frank’s, cigarette pinched between her fingers. She waits for you to slip the jackets back on (you bite back a sigh of relief) before hooking her elbow with yours. Nobody says goodbye or waves, or even acknowledges your departure, save for Frank who calls out as the two of you head out the door: “Suz, don’t forget to bring my fucking jacket back!”

She ditches the cigarette in a snowbank, then drags you off into the winter Hellscape. It’s funny how, when you’re with her, the Entity’s effects on the forest seem to subside. You’re not sure why and you don’t really care, all you know is that the ability to think clearly remains a relief.

* * *

Susie has a pep in her step you don’t have the energy to match. The glow of the campfire penetrates the distant dark. It’s safe to say you’re more than a little thankful she had walked you back. There’s no way you would have been able to find your way without her, and her bubbly personality had made the trek bearable. With your luck, you would have wound up on the Macmillan Estate, bleeding out with a bear trap clamped around your calf.

She had removed her mask a while back, and it felt as if she was dropping the formalities, too. You were quick to discover what Frank had meant when he’d said she was rubbing off on you, her vocabulary far more colorful than you had originally thought. She even had a favorite curse word, a high-pitched _motherfucker_ sprinkled into her sentences like salt and pepper. 

“Sorry I don’t come to see you much. When I’m not getting my ass kicked in trials, Frank’s been trying to train me. You could say my body count hasn’t been the highest,” She said.

“He’s been training you? How?”

“Mostly through copy-cat trials. The others pretend to be survivors while I hunt them. And every time I screw up he smacks me on the back of the head.” 

“Oh, so he’s a dick to everyone?”

“No, you don’t get it!” Susie shook her head, pink wildly fanning about. “Frank is...Complicated. I know that sounds cliche, like the jerk-off with a heart of gold, but he really isn’t that bad. Sure, he’s unnecessarily aggressive at times, and acts maybe a bit too much like a guard dog—drooling at the mouth and all—but he _means_ well. That’s why he’s pushing me to become a better killer. So I don’t get hurt.”

You had a hard time believing her but kept your thoughts to yourself. 

“He’s just into that tough-love shit— _motherfucker!_ ”

Susie staggered forward, nose squashing like a tomato against a tree trunk. A jagged uprooted rock sticks out of the path, her sneaker torn off her foot and discarded next to it. Her sock is striped and colorful, but the vibrancy of the fabric has grayed with age. Her pinkie toe sticks out of a hole, the nail painted teal. You hurry to her side, hands hovering uselessly around her form. Susie shuffles back with a hand clasped over her nose, tears sprung in her eyes. Concern spikes through you, but then she tosses her head back and laughs. A strip of red trails down from her nostril.

“Oh my god, I bet that was hilarious!”

She hobbles over and picks up her shoe, bouncing around on one leg when she slips it back on. Your chuckle is a tinge awkward, but genuine nonetheless. When Susie smiled, you smiled; it was as simple as that. You’re just glad she’s okay.

When the two of you crept closer to the survivors’ hang-out, her voice lowered to a hush, something sensitive shining in her eyes. Susie’s grip is strong when she latches onto your wrist, and once again you’re reminded of the fact that she is a killer and not just some hopeless romantic teen with an affinity for punk music and black licorice. She has hurt people. But you relent, anyhow, and allow her a moment to regain her composure.

A bruise the color of an egg-plant has formed around a scratch on her chin. She takes in a shuddering breath.

“We’re friends, right?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yeah, Susie.” You grin. “We’re friends.”

“That means you’ll come visit me again? Pinky promise?”

She juts out her small finger. The knit fabric of her fingerless gloves are tattered and falling apart, but the frayed look only adds to her grunge aesthetic. You hook your pinky with hers. You’re not sure how you’ll ever manage to sneak out again, or even survive the forest long enough to make it back to Mount Ormund, but you feel obligated to at least _try_ . You want to. Hanging out with the Legion was surreal, but oddly enough… _nice_.

“Promise,” You said.

Her beaten face breaks with excitement. Susie does a happy dance, which had halfway turned into her rendition of a metal concert—head banging and riffing off on an air-guitar—before she scoops you up in a hug. She’s strong enough that your feet leave the ground, the forest spinning. When she sets you back down again you feel just as light-headed as you do happy.

“You really shouldn’t be walking through the forest alone…” She mumbled, tapping a finger to her chin.

A light-bulb goes off behind her eyes, the spark of delight shining, but she fails to clue you in on this new brilliant idea of hers. Instead, she gives you a rougher-than-intended shove in the direction of the fire, which nearly sent you tumbling into a bush of thorns.

“Sorry!” She giggled, waving frantically in goodbye.

You laugh it off, then return her wave with a lazy one of your own before turning back to face the orange light that blinks through the thick fog and shrubbery. You’re not sure what awaits you when you get back, yet you square your shoulders and press on.


	7. Found My Head, Lost My Mind

Dark shadows crawl in, coasting over the faces of the survivors as you all huddle together. Quentin’s head rests in your lap, his nose crinkled and cheek smooshed against the denim of your thigh. Every few seconds his breath would hitch and he’d wipe the dawning sleep from his eyes with a shake of his head. The exhaustion continued to work fast though, seeping into his bones, but he’s determined to stay awake. You don’t blame him, not after everything he’s been through.

Sleep isn’t a necessity in the Entity’s realm, yet even then, sometimes, when you laid down or cuddled against another survivor, the mental burdens you carried would drag you off into pitch-black darkness. Dreams or nightmares didn’t exist here, not that you knew of, at least. But most survivors fought to avoid passing out as much as possible. Any second they could be forced into another trial. The idea of waking up to pained screams and lurking terrors—delirious and bleary from the snippet of rest—seemed to terrify most everyone around here.

Quentin cracks a yawn. His skin is oily and bathed in gold light. He cards his fingers through the curls flopped over his forehead, and forces a tired smile.

“(Y/n), Can you talk for me?”

Your stare had been burrowed into Jane. Neither she nor Kate had spilled the beans on your little endeavor, which allowed you the chance to play your disappearance off with a back-to-back trial. You wonder why she’s kept quiet, having no doubt received a more thorough rundown by now, detailing the rules and basics of the Entity’s realm in and out of perilous trials. Which meant, as you’d heard Jake tell you a dozen times, nobody is allowed into the forest. But Jane hadn’t said a word, leaving you to guess what her angle could be.

You flash Quentin a distracted smile, still busy swimming around a stream of paranoid thoughts.

“What do you want me to talk about?”

“ _Anything._ I’m five seconds away from passing out and that’s the last thing I need right now.”

You’d disagree, judging by the harsh, pruned rings that encircle his eyes. But, humming to yourself, you don’t push him and instead tap a finger to your chin. “Do you think the Entity ever gets bored of trials? One killer, a dozen shotty survivors, exploding generators—it’s the same thing over and over again. I can’t imagine our screams of pain are very diverse.” 

“Kind of like watching the National Lampoon Vacation movies. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.” 

“Hey! I like those movies.” If there was one thing you remembered about your time on Earth, it was cheesy movie nights with your mom. From Footloose to the Toxic Avenger, the two of you have seen it all. 

“You would.” His grin is wide, toothy, and chubs his cheeks, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. When he rolls his eyes at you, you gasp and pinch his cheek. His skin is remarkably soft, tinted a pretty hue. He bats your hand away, the corners of his mouth only drifting higher.

“Um, honestly,” Quentin trailed, returning to your question. His hands are folded atop each other on his stomach, thumb tapping absently against the back of his palm. “I don’t think the trials are the Entity’s version of Saturday night TV.” He sounded apprehensive. It gave you the appearance that he’s thought about this quite a lot, yet this is the first time he’s ever spoken about it with someone else before. Without thought or reluctance, you push back his beanie and comb your fingers through his mousy brown hair, gently picking apart any tangles.

You can tell he wants to say more but isn’t sure he should, afraid to go off on a rant. So you ask: “What do you mean?”

“I, uh, can’t speak for an all-knowing God or whatever it is, but creating a whole world and kidnapping random people and forcing them into a continuous rendition of _The Most Dangerous Game_ seems like a lot of work for some entertainment.“

“Did your ninth-grade English teacher force you to read that, too?” The question had popped before it even registered with you. You had never recalled the book before, but now that the words are out in the open, the plot resurfaced, too. Your heart beats a little faster.

Quentin snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, but unlike you, I actually read it.”

“Hey!” You swat at his arm, which only serves to make him crack-up harder. “I read the first line.”

The weariness has long fled from his features, a sort of vibrant energy now lifting a weight from his shoulders. It wasn’t often you saw Quentin like this, happy and in his zone, but it was a portrait you never wanted to go away. His laughter is interrupted when he chokes on his spit. He flies upward and pounds a fist into his chest. You pat his back until he’s calmed.

“You’re so annoying,” He said, face flushed from the hacking fit. 

You shrug, beaming over at him, eyes lit up with a color of giddy emotions. Compliments are rare in the Entity’s realm as everyone tried to focus on themselves and just getting through the next damn trial. But when they came along, even the backhanded playful ones, you ate that shit up. The spring a few simple light-hearted words put in your step, and lightened the air in your chest, was a feeling you couldn’t shake. Not that you wanted to.

“Can’t help it that you’re so easily amused…But, anyway, what were you saying again?” You asked.

He’s hunched over his knees now. Quentin wraps his arms around himself and looks into the immortal fire.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just a theory.”

You nudge his shoulder with your own. “No, no. You’ve got my attention now. I’m genuinely curious.”

“Really? Uh, okay,” He sounded surprised. An empty sigh barrels out of him. “It just, I don’t know—maybe the Entity…Needs us. Maybe the trials are more than just something it gets off on. Like it thrives off off our emotions or something like that. Maybe all the fear and pain fuels its power.”

Huh.

Quentin rubs at his eyes, unbothered by the lack of commentary from you. You fold your hands beneath your chin, slow to process his theory. It made sense in a way you couldn’t understand, but it seemed a hell of a lot more plausible than your version. 

A mist snakes in from the edges of the clearing, a sight so familiar your mind barely registered it anymore. Dwight struggles through, limping, his arm thrown over Jake’s shoulder. They’re both drenched in sweat, wet, greasy hair matted to the sides of their face. Meg bursts through the fog soon after, and then a few others, till the fire pit is crowded. The crackle of flames grows accompanied by heavy, labored breathing and tired groans. 

Jake eases Dwight down onto a log, gives the guy a firm pat on the back, and then makes a beeline over to you and Quentin. His intentions are unclear, but the stern, grim expression he wears couldn’t mean anything good. His fingers brush over your cheek, tentative, gentle before he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Quentin makes eye contact with you, his face an amusing twist of bewilderment, but you can’t say you look any different. Jake stares at the side of your face, deep in thought. His mood worsens.

“Uh…Jake?”

“Why hasn’t it healed?” He asked.

He shakes his head, then draws his hand away from your face to cross his arms over his chest. A thin sheen of perspiration slicks his forehead and neck, glistens beneath the glow of the fire. Sweat stains the front of his undershirt, which peeks out from beneath his open and disheveled jacket. Quentin draws closer, following the point of Jake’s stare. 

You can’t help but feel a tinge self-conscious beneath their inspection. Reaching up, your fingers ghost along the shell of your ear till something small and rough can be felt. _Oh._ Recognition sweeps across your features. A weight of anxiety dropped to your stomach. You had forgotten all about the cut you’d received in the woods, having figured it would be long healed, but the scab you feel now says otherwise.

When had Jake noticed it? He comes over and sits beside you; Quentin nestles close out of curiosity. 

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while now,” Jake said. “But can’t make sense of anything.”

“I forgot all about it, to be honest,” You admitted, folding your hands within your lap. They press between the warmth of your thighs, a gesture to hide the slight shake that had afflicted them.

Quentin’s mouth drops. “Wait, so you got cut in a trial and the Entity didn’t heal you?”

You glance down at the faded grass below to avoid their watchful stares. Out of nervous habit, you scratch your nose and choke down the urge to candidly spill your encounter in the forest. Picturing the solemn disappointment on Jake’s face was enough of a reason to keep your secret, though, despite the guilt and worry clawing its way through you.

“I doubt it’s a big deal.” You plaster on an unwarranted smile. “The cut is small; the Entity just couldn’t be bothered.”

“All of our wounds have healed before or at the Campfire, (Y/n).”

Jake’s voice has Goosebumps prickling along your forearms and sweat to form on your palms. You know he’s right, but you can’t bring yourself to accept it. Maybe the cut was a consequence of venturing into the forest. The Entity’s way of warning you not to interact with the Legion any longer. 

Again, like waves crawling up a beach shore, the fog slithers in. You set your shoulders when it washes over your feet, then ghosts along your thighs and stomach. Jake spares you one last afflicted look when the campfire begins to dematerialize around you, shape-shifting right before your eyes. Quentin waves. You hate the concern that’s struck his features now. You hate having to lie to them.

Your fingers brush over the scab once more.

* * *

Crayon drawings of stick figures and exaggerated flowers decorate the walls, smudged with blotchy, yellow stains. You’re surrounded by dereliction and the ghosts of a horrific past. The preschool is in ruins. Mold eats away once bright, cheery wallpaper. Little chairs for children sit abandoned, knocked over, and rusting. A hot, stuffy humidity clings to everything as the boiler beneath your feet hisses and whines. Nea tip-toes in front of you, leading you from the classroom. The lightbulbs overhead flicker and spark. A record of children singing plays off in the distant. You move to grip onto the back of her top but she shakes you off.

“I’m not Jake. Don’t cling onto me like that.”

You flush. It had been an instinct to latch onto the nearest safe presence. Her words don’t sit right with you. A crease forms on your forehead. _Did_ you cling onto Jake? If you had, he never mentioned it before. You want to pry her for more information, but the chugging of the boiler room has you falling quiet. It’s not the time. Bursts of steam sound on either side of you. The room is unbearably hot. Your skin feels like it’s bubbling, ready to slide off your bones like goo. The blink of a generator catches your eye and you hurry on over, allowing Nea to fall behind.

Nea says something you don’t quite catch, a whispered shout drowned out by the loud noises of the basement. But it’s not a scream of terror or a string of heated curses, so you gave a hum in acknowledgment and let her be. Lowering before the machine, you open the side compartment, the copper metal squeaking in response. The task melds together, the process engraved into your brain, and your fingers work of their own volition. Your mind drifts back to the earlier conversation at the fire, and again, you touch your ear, unable to resist. After a long while of monkeying with the mechanics, the generator quiets, and you ease back, resting on the hinds of your legs.

“Nea?” You’re hesitant to call out for her, only having realized now that the girl had never returned. 

Hands slip around your eyes from behind. A gasp rips open your chest, shoulders frozen and hunched against your neck.

“Guess who,” The voice is unfamiliar; a faux deepness impairs your ability to recognize the speaker.

“Uhm,” You worry your lip between your teeth. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, _guess._ ”

They chuckled. Your throat tightens. Your heart starts to race, loud enough to be heard from across the room.

“Frank.” You rasped, a dying whisper.

“Miss me?”

Light and color floods back to you all at once, his fingers brushing through your hair when he pulls back. Dread still pumps through your veins, but in slow, hesitant movements, you turn around to face him. His leather jacket is coated in fresh blood, a gray knit beanie clutched in his hand. Frank tosses it at you, and you narrowly catch it.

“Caught your little friend—Nea, was it? Almost threw me off your trail…” He tilts his head; you can hear the grin hitching onto his face. “Luck for you, though, I decided to circle back around.”

Your hands tighten around her hat, clutching the stained fabric to your chest.

The way Frank’s interacting with you is almost…normal. He seems relaxed; shoulders limp, voice at ease. The handle of his hunting knife sticks out of his jacket pocket but remains untouched. By all means, you should be dead or strung up on a hook by now, and the fact that you’re not concerned you.

There’s a beat of quiet.

“Are you going to hook me?” You asked. You’re on your knees, jeans rubbed against the thick dust and grime that layers the basement floor. With a cock of his head, Frank gives a one-sided shrug.

“Yeah,” He said. “But only if I catch you.”

He taps his foot, arms crossed over his chest. Your bruised palms press into your thighs in preparation. His hand creeps up to his mask at a painfully slow rate, almost as if he was afraid to spook you, and then he props it up. Chapped lips and a circle piercing revealed. 

His cocky grin is slow to fall, but when it does, Frank mouths:

_Run._

You sprint up, a cold sweat breaking out across your forehead. The basement of the boiler room is cracked and saturated with a wetness of unknown origin. You’re careful not to slip as you barrel past Frank and into the basement hallway. The thuds of his footsteps are in sync with yours. He’s so close you can feel the swipe of his knife on the cotton on your back. With no plan or aim, you swing right, then left, then dash up concrete steps.

An enormous sinkhole cuts open the hallway, inky darkness waiting beneath. Heat slicks the back of your neck, face a mess of frustration. Frank bolts up the staircase to push through the set of broken double doors. The chain around the handle rattles. Through the tiny slits of his mask, you lock eyes. He doesn’t stop to catch his breath or think. With his knife aimed high, he runs toward you.

The blade swipes at your cheek, slicing a streak of bright red in the soft flesh. You duck beneath his raised arm. The lip of the sinkhole crumbles behind you. A loud, surprised yelp follows. Something clangs at the bottom of the pit, and when you turn around, Frank is gone.

You drop to your knees, fingers dug into broken tile and splintered wood when you peer over the mouth of the hole to find Frank dangling below. His gloved hand is wrapped around a protruding pipe. The grinning mask had somehow managed to stay on during the fall, but his knife goes unseen. A light-bulb above your head flickers manically. 

Watching Frank cling to survival gave you a sick sort of satisfaction. You could walk away right now and leave him for dead. After everything he’s done to you, he deserved it, too. The thought is so tempting, you nearly grinned.

_ Frank is...Complicated _ , Susie’s words resurfaced. Your jaw tightens. Of course, she’d pop in like an angel on your shoulder.  _ He means well _ .

Damn it. You sigh in defeat before lowering yourself onto your stomach. Wiggling closer, the sharp edge of the sinkhole digs into your chest as you reach out for him. Your fingers skim along the wood of his mask. Frank lets out a pained grunt before he swings his arm up to latch onto your hand. You force down a groan. Frank is _heavy._ Your body begins to drag further into the hole. You reach down and grab onto his wrist with your other hand, then pull as hard as you can. Your shoulders scream in protest, cheeks puffed out with hot air. It feels like the tendons in your limbs are tearing apart.

Frank grinds his elbows into the floor and you scramble backward, still tugging on his arms. He makes another strained noise of complaint before he’s pushed himself up from the sinkhole and onto his knees. _Safe._ A laugh of relief breaks you when you fall back onto the floor, panting breathlessly. He slumps against a locker, expression hidden beneath the mask, but you suspect he feels the same.

The room quiets, nothing but your huffs of air to fill the preschool hall. The aftershocks of adrenaline still prickle through you. A part of you is still in disbelief you’d managed to save him, and another can’t get over the fact that you wanted to.

Frank leans his head back against the grungy locker, hood down and crumpled around his neck. His silence doesn’t unnerve you, though. You’d be shaken too if you nearly fell to your death—not that dying meant anything in this realm, anyhow. With a grunt, you heave your torso from the ground and pull your knees to your chest. You wind your arms around them for security, tucking your chin against the ripped denim.

“Are you okay?” You blurted. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” His tone is sharp, stabbing. You blink several times, trying to make sense of the question.

“What do you mean?”

“Why’d you help me?”

He gets up from the floor, hands balled into fists. He’s unarmed, but towering above you like this, you’re two-feet tall. What you thought had been a momentary peace between the two of you vanishes in a puff of smoke. You feel like his prey again. He takes another step forward, you shuffle backward, banging your elbows against the hard tiling.

“I, uh—“ You stammered. “You would have died.”

“So?”

Panic lurches through you. This was a mistake.

You scramble to your feet, the muscles in your arms and stomach moaning in pain. Your limbs feel stretched thin, and weak. Your head collided against a locker with echoing force, Frank’s hand gripping your neck. The impact leaves you gasping for air. His fingers flex around your throat, squeezing tighter.

“I,” You pant. Your voice is so choked out it sounds like a high-pitched whistle. “I wa-was trying to help.”

“I don’t need any fucking favors from you. Okay?”

His hand slips down your front, fisting the fabric of your tank top. Frank pulls you forward, only to shove you again into the metal locker. Your brain rattles, the back of your skull thumping with pain. The mask grins at you, but his words drip with venom. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, preparing for the worst.

Frank lets go with a frustrated yell and stumbles away. His hands rake through his hair, tugging at the short locks. You gulp in air with a frantic need, fingers gently brushing over the tender spots of your neck. The skin burns to touch, and it hurts even worse to swallow. The threads of your temper begin to unwind at a simmering pace.

“Why?” You don’t recognize the rough sound of your voice, but the anger tinting it is crystal clear. “I did it for Susie, you fucking prick.”

You’re tired. So, so, so fucking tired, yet you push off from the locker, tripping over your feet. Your hand continues to cover your neck almost defensively so. He’s stalled in his pacing; his chest heaves with rapid breaths. Cautiously, you take a step away, testing the waters. Frank doesn’t say anything but watches when you shuffle back some more. Afraid to take your eyes off him, you walk backward, using the palm of your hand to feel your way around.

You stop at the top of the staircase leading down to the basement. Frank’s frozen in place. Something in you wishes he’d say something. Even a threat or snide comment would be less disconcerting than this. Yet, he remains silent. He straightens out his spine, gaze locked and burned into yours, but he doesn’t move. That’s all the sign you need to turn around and flee, tripping your way down the cement steps at an animalistic pace.

He doesn’t chase after you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know why but this chapter was not easy to write at all, and it didn't come out any good, but whatever! Moving swiftly on~ Just wanted to thank you all for the comments you've been leaving, they mean a lot to me. I'm glad you're enjoying the story as much as I am.
> 
> Also, one more thing, I most likely won't update this weekend. I'm going out of town, but I should be able to post something on Monday if things work out.


	8. Party Favors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, time got away from me. This chapter bounces around a bit, but I actually like it a lot, so...yeah! And my bad if it's a bit messy, I was a little too eager to post.

A snapped branch was stuck in your ribs after Susie had pulled you into the nearest bush. Thorns and twigs tangle in your hair. It had been a jerk instant when she thought she saw another survivor skulking around the forest hem, and on instinct, yanked on your arm and sent the two of you tumbling down.

“Aw shit,” she said.

Susie wraps her hands around her calf and pulls her knee to her chest to inspect the new tear in her leggings. She plucks at the loose threads for just a moment, reaction hidden by the painted wood situated over her face. You move to sit up too, when a thorn pricks your skin, prying a hiss from your teeth. Her head snaps in your direction, bright red welling along your arm.

“In hindsight, probably not my best idea,” Susie chuckled.

She begins to grapple her way out of the tangled branches and climbs to her feet. You gingerly do the same, careful to avoid the poking edges and sharp pricks. Finally stumbling from the bush with only a few more, itty bitty cuts. Susie dusts off the dirt from the back of her legs before turning to you.

“Ready?”

“Are you sure this is okay with Frank?”

From what could only be described as what felt like forever ago, Susie had come for a visit. It was short, nothing but a hug shared between you two before she had blurted out the real reason she’d snuck over. And that was to ask if you would visit the resort again. She never mentioned when or how long you’d be staying for, yet had promised Frank was on board with the plan. You weren’t so sure.

Your last encounter with him had left its mark on you, and you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Yet, out of everything, the one thing you hadn’t expected was for him to be okay with seeing you again. Not after whatever the fuck had happened between the two of you. The whole thing had you anxious, but you didn’t tell Susie that.

“Yes!” She laughed. “Well, I mean, he didn’t object, so…”

“What?”

“Stop worrying about it. It’s going to be fun!”

She latches onto your hand, then drags you along with her as you trip and stumble over your feet. The trees rustle, something alien chirps in the distance, and your nerves have split right in half. The forest made you uneasy, it was as simple as that, but you had never once felt like you were being watched before. It’s different now, though. The paranoia is quicksand, dragging you under. You spare a glance back at the glow of the campfire and find nothing.

“Come on, slowpoke,” Susie teased. “Frank’s waiting~”

You blink over at her, expression a twist of confusion and discomfort. Your lips iron into a thin line, the hairs on the back of your neck tingling.

“I don’t think he likes me very much.” Your chuckle is half-baked and ends on a sour note.

Susie shakes her head and grips your hand a little tighter.

* * *

When grass bulked into the snow, Susie stopped to tug her sweatshirt over her head. She’s left in a distressed band tee, the logo on the front peeling and faded. She bundles the green jacket before extending it out to you, hair billowing in the wind.

“None of the others would let me borrow theirs,” she explained, the pout evident when she trailed off. “Hurry, I don’t want you turning into a block of ice. The others told me about what happened last time.”

“Thanks.”

You pull the thick cotton over your head and bunch your arms through the sleeves. Her scent is faint, nothing left but a mist of something sugary. She’s already begun the trek through another thicket, this one perpetually blanketed in stagnant sheets of white. Your breath wobbles in your throat and clouds in the air. You steel your shoulders and hurry on after her, afraid of the effects of the forest. When you’re with Susie, the static in your brain decays, and you don’t want to find out what happens if the two of you get separated.

Her sweatshirt is remarkably cozy, unrealistically so when put against the raging, snow-fueled winds here, but you’re not complaining. You wrap your arms around yourself, the sleeves flopping over your fists, and slow to match her pace. The conversation dances between the two of you, reverting to your lives in a world before this one, jumping from music to hotties to what your favorite candy used to be.

You don’t have an answer for most of her eager questions, but you try not to let it get to you, anyway. Susie doesn’t seem to mind.

“I have a few ideas on what we can do today,” Susie’s been on a rant ever since she spotted the sloped roof of the ski resort poking through the towering pines. She’s buzzing with joy, hands flying about erratically while she chitters away. The two of you climb up the porch steps to the lodge, the broken construction equipment screeching in the wind when you shuffle inside. “I was thinking we could play Canasta—“

The knife whizzed right by your ear and dug into the wood frame of the doorway with a _thunk!_ Susie had let out a squeak of surprise, tugging you securely into her arms. Hand tucked to the back of your head like a protective mother.

“Julie!” She hissed.

The other laughed, hips swaying when she walked over to retrieve the knife. The wood splinters and cracks as she tugs the blade from the stiff and frozen panel. The sound echoes around the lodge, fading to a whisper. Without so much as a warning, Julie pulls you from Susie’s grip. She slings an arm across your shoulder and leans in close.

“You don’t want to play cards with Susie,” You could hear the satisfied grin of amusement in her voice. “She cheats.”

“Wha—I don’t!” Susie hops onto her tippy toes, whining.

Joey’s tall form is sprawled across the broken sofa, legs hung off the armrest, bent and languidly kicking. He shuffles upright now, though, and turns his head to look at the three of you.

“You kidding, Suz?” He asked. “You’re a schemer.”

Susie huffs out in annoyance before covering your ears with both her hands. She nudges you further into the room and away from Julie.

“La la la,” she sings when the other two tease her again. Each time they start to speak, she raises her voice higher. She does this until they give up, Julie with an angered grunt and Joey with a simple shrug of his shoulders. The moment it’s quiet, she draws her palms from the sides of your head and rests her chin atop your shoulder.

“Don’t listen to them, (Y/n),” Susie whispered. “They’re just jealous I kick their motherfucking asses at Gin all the time.”

“Yeah, because you cheat!” Joey shouts. Her shoulders shoot up, her neck flushed red. For a moment, it looks like she’s about to get into it with them. 

Susie ducks her head and laughs. “Whatever. (Y/n) and I know the truth.” No one tries to contradict her anymore, argument settled. There’s a beat. Her gaze sweeps around the commons of the lodge, head whipping in different directions until she stops to stare up at the second-floor balcony. “Where’s Frank?” She asked.

At the mention of the surly leader, you find yourself searching for him too. A discomfort teetering between restlessness and disappointment makes your stomach churn. He’s nowhere in sight.

Julie’s propped herself up against the abandoned front desk. She plants her hands on the marble surface before hopping on up, long legs hung less than an inch from the floor. With a hum, her head lolls to the side, and you get the distinct feeling that she’s staring directly at _you_. The sharpie’d grin permanently gloats. Your hands are cold but are growing grossly sweaty.

“He left to blow off some steam,” Joey said.

“Oh,” Susie deflates. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“He’s been a pain in the ass ever since he came back from that trial with you.” Julie’s comment had struck you. She laughs at the surprise painting your features—the anxiety one sentence created within you. 

It would be lying to say you hadn’t wondered if Frank thought about that encounter just as much as you did. At first, thinking back on that moment, you wanted to tear his head off. The kind of fury inflicting you that had you all sorts of hot and sweaty. Yet, the more you obsessed over it, the more your frustration began to wash away. There was something off about his anger, even when his hands had gripped your throat. It seemed forced. Like he wasn’t sure what to feel. 

He should have been able to snap your neck the moment his hands retracted around it, but his motivation was weak.

Susie tugs you along with her fingers hooked around yours, intentionally ignoring Julie’s attempt at stirring the pot. Chin tilted high, a hum smothered behind her mask. She stops short and drops to her knees, pulling out two decks of playing cards from a box on the floor. 

“Do you know how to play, (Y/n)?” She asked.

Susie was a mere one-hundred points away from winning Canasta when the game was brought to an abrupt end. A thick fog made of ash and brimstone had descended upon the resort.

Susie whines out in grievance, throwing her cards onto the ground just as the Entity snakes around her waist. The cheek of her mask split open like a fissure in the dirt. Then her hands began to dematerialize, particles of herself hovering above the cards laid out on the floor, and with that, she was gone. Leaving you awkwardly sat before the other members of the Legion.

Joey began to gather the spilled cards to combine them into one stack of two decks. Julie stands to stretch. Neither of them seem willing to continue.

It was almost like, the moment Susie had gone, they forgot your presence completely. The two Legion members sidle up on the couch and strike up a conversation, one you aren’t sure you’re meant to be a part of. You shuffle your feet and clasp your hands in a frail attempt to occupy yourself. Should you go? You’ve been absent from the campfire for a while now, but not a single part of you is willing to venture into that forest alone. The thought sends spiders skittering on your neck.

“I think I’m going to take a look around,” You said, not sure if they even cared to know.

Joey cranes his head to glance back at you. “Be careful and watch where you’re going. This place isn’t exactly up to code.”

He’s sincere in his warning, you can tell that much, despite the muffling barrier of the mask. It makes you feel slightly better. Offering him a thankful smile, you wave goodbye. Without much knowledge on where to go and what’s what, you find yourself headed to the second floor. The railing is coated in three layers of dust, not to mention snow, when you run your hand over the curved wood. Tripping up on the thick, tattered carpet that’s been rolled down the steps. 

The upstairs hall has an emptied vending machine, the plastic bashed in, and numerous stacks of cardboard boxes, which look to have been ransacked through and through. Every step you take is accompanied by an obnoxious creak that echoes about the resort. You pass by what could have been a map screwed into the wall but has been scratched out with something sharp.

You wind up in a random bedroom that looks to be lived in. The canopy bed sheets are crumpled around the wooden posts, and the pillows hold onto the head-shaped print pressed into them. A cracked, tall mirror sits in the corner of the room. There are no holes in the ceiling, and the olive curtains have been pulled shut. 

_FRANK_ is carved into the wallpaper. The tips of your fingers ghost over his name, touch as light as a feather. Your mind has fallen quiet. The room feels different knowing that it’s his. A piece of him you were never meant to see. You draw back with a hiss, a sliver sticking out from your pointer finger.

“Looking for something?”

You whip around. The world goes dizzy for a split second. Frank rests against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. A heat blooms across your face. You feel like you’ve just been caught with your hand in the cookie jar. He doesn’t appear to be mad, however, nor irritated. Just...blank.

“No, uh,” you stammered, struggling to find an excuse. “I was just…”

He lets out a low laugh, then shakes his head. When Frank pushes off from the wall and comes into the room, you take an involuntary step back. This seems to make him hesitate, and he stops where he is, arms hung limply at his side.

Frank’s hot and cold—that’s becoming more and more apparent anytime you’re around him. One moment, he’s talking to you like a regular, normal asshole, and in the next, he has a blade pressed to your throat and a hundred threats bleeding from his lips. The constant whiplash of it all has begun to get to you.

A pregnant silence infiltrates the room. Frank’s waiting for you to say something, and you’re expecting him to withdraw his knife and make a go for it any second now. It’s an awkward standoff, one that has you grasping for straws on what to try and do. You knew becoming friends with Susie would mean having to be around him, but that didn’t mean you liked it. The other two are bearable.

“Hey, I,” he stopped, unsure of what he really wanted to say. For a split second, Frank seems unsure of himself, biting and gnawing on his reluctant tongue. You don’t know if he sees that in your eyes, or realized it himself, but he straightens up and snaps out of it in an instant.

“You helped me—I don’t fucking know why, but you did, and I feel like I owe you for it,” He said, voice taut with a wave of simmering anger.

You rapidly shake your head, biting your lip.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Shut up. Just shut up,” Frank snapped only to deflate seconds later.

With an exasperated sigh, he shoves his hands into his jean pockets, then rocks back onto his heel. His head hangs low and he shakes it almost in disbelief at himself, or at what he’s about to say. You suspect that beneath his mask his face is a picture of frustration; eyes narrowed, mouth stitched into a permanent frown, the vein in his temple protruding.

He doesn’t apologize for his outburst, but his tone is noticeably softer: “Look, I already made up my mind, okay? But I don’t like owing anybody fucking favors so just give me something I can do already.” You hear him grimace the moment the words fly out of his mouth.

Your mind races with so many different reactions to his offer. You want to laugh, to tell him to fuck off, to roll your eyes and walk out of the room without so much as a glimpse in his direction. Frank sucks in a sharp breath. His shoulders pull together. He’s huddled in the doorway. The way he’s made himself smaller makes you stop and think.

He’s _waiting_ for you to spit at him. To cuss him out. To rip into him without a shred of remorse. He expects that, and a part of you feels as if he wants it to. Just another reason for him to dig his claws into you. The corners of your mouth betray a nearly concealed smile.

“Well,” You wrap your arms around your stomach, unable to comprehend what you’re about to say. “Susie got sucked into a trial. So, could you walk me back to the campfire?”

He keeps his head low but nods quickly.

“Alright.” Frank shrugs off his leather jacket then tosses it at you. It’s warm in your hands and smells of cheap Polo. “Leave Susie’s hoodie here for when she gets back.”

It doesn’t make sense, but you don’t argue. Setting his jacket onto the bed, you hook your fingers on the hem of the chunky sweatshirt and tug it upward. It snags on your tank top, dragging the fabric with it, and a brush of cold air over your bare stomach has you squirming. When you slide his jacket on the zipper jams at the top.

“It does that sometimes. Stupid thing.” He steps to you and pinches the pull-tab. The toes of his boots bump yours, and you watch the movement of his neck tattoo with every breath he takes. The moment had lasted less than a second before he managed to zip the coat uptight, but it felt far longer than that. When he backs away, there’s a hesitance to him that hadn’t been there before. Frank turns and walks away before you can say anything, though.

“If you walk fucking slow I’m ditching your ass,” He said before exiting the room.

You hop to it, an unsuspecting pep in your step when you chase after him.

* * *

To your surprise, Frank let you stick by as close as you wanted to him during the walk. And you took full advantage of that. It’s not like you wanted to push him over the edge or anything, but it wasn’t every day you got the chance to mess around a bit with the leader of the Legion. Hell, you figured this could go one of two ways: you could wind up with a knife in your chest, or you might…not get stabbed...Either way, you were having fun.

Your hands sway at your sides while the two of you trek through the forest, the leather on his knuckles brushing against yours. The effects of the forest waned beside him, just as they had with Susie. Frank’s left in his gray hoodie since you’ve snuggled into the heat of his jacket, but the frumpy frame and lack of tension in his shoulders gives him an almost _regular_ appearance, despite the mask.

He looks like a young kid, and you suppose, he is one. Just like you are—perpetually frozen at the age of nineteen.

Dark, spindle trees moan above. The path thins out, then widens, then thins again. You don’t recognize anything around you, every bush, stone, and blade of grass identical to the other. But then again, you’ve never been able to tell the difference between forward or backward in these woods. Kate was right…the forest is sick. You hadn’t asked him, but you hope Frank knows where he’s going.

Frank’s head briefly turns in your direction before his stare shoots straightforward again. You don’t have to wonder what’s on his mind, though, not when his hand creeps up to his throat, fingers curling around the chain of the locket. Your teeth bite down on the inside of your lip. You still don’t know what that necklace means to you, but it definitely means something to him.

“Where—“

“How do you—“

The both of you started and fell silent in sync. Your face falls before a shy smile works its way back up. 

Your feet feel like they’re on fire. The trek back to the campfire has turned out to be a lot longer than you had anticipated. Susie always had something to say, though, and you thought that might be the difference. Frank had been mostly quiet up until now. You wish he’d remove his mask.

“Sorry—“ You started.

“You go—“

Yet again, the two of you pause. The awkward silence falls upon you like rainwater. You shake your head, prepared to tell him to speak when Frank lets out a dejected sigh.

“There’s no point,” He grumbled. “You don’t remember a damn thing, anyway.”

He’s not wrong, but you’re left disgruntled despite the truth. How dare he be annoyed by your memory loss? Fuck him.

"It’s not really my fault, you know,” you grumbled. Your hands press up to your stomach as your fingers pinch and fiddle with the worn fabric of his jacket.

“No shit.”

A heat scorched your face. You plant your heels into the dirt with a huff of annoyance. He moves to keep walking, but you latch onto his elbow and tug him back around to face you. Frank’s hands shove into your collarbones, but you push back at him, and send a fist against his chest. “You’re a fucking asshole,” you snapped.

“’s not news to me, sweets.”

You bundle up every ounce of your strength and plow another hit into his shoulder. Frank remains unfazed, chest heaving. No matter how hard you punch him, he’s as solid as a brick, and your knuckles have begun to sore. Frustration burns your eyes, but when you withdraw from him in defeat, that frustration turns to muddy tears.

“Fuck off.” You turn your back to him, arms wound defensively around your waist. Your fingers dig past the fabric of your top, grinding into the flesh of your hips.

_I can’t remember. I can’t remember. I can’t remember._ The mantra melds together, turning your brain into mush. Every time you try to think back on your life before—searching for memories—and every time you come back with just a snippet of something, it hurts more. Who was your best friend? What’s the name of the town you grew up in? Did you have a boyfriend? Was your mom still alive? What does that locket mean to you? _Who are you?_

You didn’t know.

A heated groan sounds behind you. 

“Dunno what I was fucking thinking.” Frank’s voice is cold, but you don’t know who he’s angrier at—you, or himself. “Have fun walking back by yourself, (Y/n).”

Your name in his mouth barely fazes you. Your face is flushed, unshed tears blurring your gaze. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Instead, you shrug off his jacket, wind it around in your hands, and toss it to the ground. It hits the dirt path with a flat noise. Before Frank has a chance to register what you’ve done, you break off into a sprint, charging through the thicket with no aim or direction.

You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t care. You just need to get away.


	9. Glimpse

Feet planted in the mud, back hunched and aching, you’re bent over your knees, gasping for air. Your skin feels like leather after barreling through the dense thicket with no aim or sense of direction. You ran. For how long or to where, you don’t know, but a clearing had opened up and you stopped to catch your breath. If Frank had been chasing you, he would have tackled you to the thorny ground by now. Knife tucked to your chin, a million curses and insults spat at you from behind a painted grin. Yet, you’re alone now, and utterly, hopelessly lost.

This section of the forest is vaguely recognizable; some irregularities stick out like an itch you can’t scratch. The world is cast in vibrant, midnight blues, a full moon smiling behind wiry black branches, vacant of their leaves. A crow caws in the distance. There’s a blink of light just up ahead, the smallest speck of it. A lantern hung from a tree branch.

You step forward. The earth cracks beneath your feet.

A jolt strikes, then the forest begins to violently shake. The dirt fissures and crumbles around you. Trees are uprooted by an invisible pressure. The night sky flickers between pitch black and a deep blue. You watch in horror as the ground begins to tear open, creating dangerous caverns that swallow boulders, bushes, and pines whole. Peering down, oil-slicked darkness awaited below. You break into a sprint the moment the path began to break apart beneath you. The forest continues to suffer blows, tremors coursing through it. Your vision is blurred, your body trembling just as much as the world around you. The heel of your boots would touch the ground and it would splinter, forcing you to run faster. Till your lungs cry out for relief, gulps of cold air shredding them apart.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, it stops. Everything is calm.

Your foot hits your other ankle and you trip, lurching forward. Your palms hit the rough soil. A sharp, rusty _snap!_ sounded; excruciating pain sent straight through your arm—splitting veins, springing tears. Jagged, iron teeth tear into your flesh. You couldn’t have stopped yourself from crying out if you tried. A scream guts you; shaky whimpers racking over your body.

From experience, you know, struggling against the bear trap will only worsen your agony. Wet trails stain your warm face. You try and move a sliver of an inch and the metal fangs irritate your open wounds, shocks of agony a potent paralyzer. When a sob presses against your gritted teeth, you don’t choke it back down. The ugly noise shatters the deafening quiet of the forest as you slump against the trunk of a pine tree.

Fast footsteps sound in the distance and panic lurches through you, spoiling the exhaustion that had injected itself into your bones. Your eyes widen to the mold of golf balls, the whites bright in the darkness, and a thick mass has formed in your throat. Desperation has you prying at the trap jaws, wedging your fingers between the metal. More and more tears burn and blur your vision. You manage to push the teeth a little apart when the trap snaps back.

You moan in pain. Your fingers are slick with blood, which only aids in the futility of your freedom. Something rustles the bushes, sending you into another fit of panic. _Please_ and _just go away_ slur together in a constant stream of whines.

“Shit.”

Your head snaps up. Never before have you been so glad to see _him_.

The comforts of not seeing the massive form of the Trapper emerge from the bushes but Frank instead makes you sob harder. He hurries on over and you reach out for him, bloody, mangled fingers latching onto the sleeve of his leather jacket. He doesn’t push you away, crouching before you, expression hid behind the mask. His breathing is harsh, though, an air of urgency to each sharp inhale.

“Look what you got yourself into now,” Frank sighed.

Your smile wobbles, a hiccup sending aches through you. Snot and tears slick your face. You’re so overcome with hope you hadn’t even stopped to ask how he found you. You’re just glad he did.

His fingers ghost along your skin before he secures his hold on your upper arm, touch still agonizingly tender when he moves to readjust your position. You hiss and he hesitates, before cautiously bringing you closer. You could have sworn you heard him whisper words of comfort, but through your grunts and sniveling it was hard to tell. With practiced hands, he presses down on the springs of the trap. The teeth begin to gradually pull from where they’ve bore into your forearm. A thick film of sweat coats your forehead, a droplet rolling down your temple. Frank lets out a strained groan.

“How did you know…?” The question fades at your lips, replaced by quiet, relieved pants for air.

The trap is pried apart just enough. You wrap your free hand around the unscathed part of your mangled arm and pull the limb to your chest. Crimson pools down the front of your shirt. Frank lets go with a grunt and the bear trap snaps shut once more. Your blood glistens beneath the blue of the moon, staining the fangs.

“You’re not the only one who likes to go looking for trouble,” he finally answered, sitting back on his haunches.

Frank’s eyes follow the salty, warm wetness streaming down your cheeks. He rubs the nape of his neck before glancing away. The leather covering his hands leaves smudged, red fingerprints over his skin. The quiet presses in. That earthquake or whatever the fuck that had been still weighed heavy on your mind, but not nearly as much as one curious question.

Your throat hurts.

“How did—“

“How did I find you?” Frank cut you off. He gives a slow shake of his head. “It’s not important.”

You place your hand over his forearm and weakly squeeze. Swallowing hard, you mumble: “It is.”

“God, you look like shit.”

“What a charmer.”

He falls silent, staring at you from beneath the wide, manic eyes of the mask. There’s something light and comfortable about the air shared between you. You can sense his playful grin even if you can’t see it. A wave of lightheadedness hits you, making your eyes flutter, and your smile sag.

“Frank,” you whined.

His laugh is low and much softer than the cocky chuckles you were used to. The kind he usually let slip as he angled his knife above your chest. It vaguely registers in your mind that you’re seeing a whole new side to him now. Something you feel yourself growing quite fond of already. You wish he could be like this all the time.

“Fine, I’ll tell you.” His voice dropped to a barely audible grumble then. “I…sorta followed you.”

Your head lolls to the side with a yawn. There’s a stickiness on your cheeks and under your nose. He wasn’t kidding before if you look as bad as you feel. With the back of your wrist, you wipe away the snot and slow drying tears, avoiding his gaze like the plague. Embarrassment turns your entire body into a heater. Frank’s seen you a blubbering, snot-faced mess and the thought makes you want to curl up and die.

He’s still in the midst of his explanation. You tune back in at: “And then you screamed and…yeah.” Frank glances away in an almost _shy_ manner. You shake your head before you can read too much into it, though, having figured it was just the blood loss that’s made you so woozy. Your wounded arm has gone numb, still cradled between your thigh and stomach.

“We should go,” he spoke up when you failed to answer.

You nod in approval before attempting to grovel to your feet. Frank latches onto your non-injured arm, fingers flexing around your wrist before he loops the limb over his shoulder. His palm trickles down your side then, curling around your waist. You think of making a joke about “old times”—that trial in the Red Forest coming to mind—but decide against it. A hum rests on your tongue when you lean on him, head relaxed near his chest.

You’re not sure which way he’s lead the two of you, but in a twist of events you never saw coming, you blindly _trust_ Frank. The thought nearly forces you to stop. A stunning realization you weren’t ready to fathom quite yet. The two of you are careful as you walk down a beaten path, burst and fractured by the earlier seism.

“That was weird,” you mumbled. Frank cranes his neck to glance down at you.

“What was?”

“That earthquake.” This wasn’t Earth anymore, but the term was the only one that felt appropriate.

“Yeah. What the fuck was that?”

Your shrug is half-assed and you shake your head. “I don’t know. I’ve never experienced anything like it. Not here, at least.”

“That’s…” Frank draws in a keen breath, Adams apple dipping sharply. “Probably not good then—“

As if talking about it was enough to summon it, the both of you halt—the ground has begun to shiver. Your heart races, stuck in your throat. 

You stare at Frank, unsure what to do, but he pushes off, half carrying you down the path. Your feet stumble over themselves, whines of pain breaking your teeth while your mangled arm is jostled with each new tremor. Frank’s grip on you tightens, fingers dug into the flesh of your hips till the point you bruise. The ground opens beneath you, a deep cavern forming where your feet used to stand.

A shriek rips open your chest. 

Your legs swing aimlessly over a rocky abyss. Frank’s got a grip on your hand and he’s on his knees, clinging onto you with panicked desperation. Your fingers helplessly try and grasp onto his wrist. But the weight of your own body is tearing your arm apart more and more. Blood spurts from the jagged holes in the flesh, the skin stretching apart. You cry out in pain.

“Let me go. Let me go, _please_ ,” You plead. The pain in your forearm is immeasurable. Any second now, it feels as if it’s going to rip into pieces. Frank meets your bloodshot eyes and immediately curses.

“Fuck, I’m not doing that. Hold on.” His grip tightens, both his hands latched onto your palm and wrist. 

The realm continues to crumble to pieces, rocks, and boulders tumbling down on either side of you. Something nicks your shoulder. The ground beneath Frank is cracked and collapsing in on itself. His fingers loosen for just a second and you’re falling.

Everything is pitch black, but then the darkness begins to fade, a warm, grimy brown light appearing beneath you. Your head connects with something hard. You’re out.

* * *

There’s a soft nudge against your leg, a headache chipping at your skull like an ice pick. Again, something prods at your calf. You blink, groaning in discomfort as a million different sources start to ache. Every inch of your body throbs as if it had been plowed into by a truck. Dirt and ash coat your skin like grease. It’s in your mouth, your eyes, and your hair.

At the pace of a sloth, you pull yourself upright; chest slumped over while your creaky bones scream in protest. You rub at your eyes, but the stinging in them only worsens. The air down here is thick and just as dirty. Pebbles and sand sprinkle down from overhead. Wooden beams travel across the ceiling, griping. An enormous hole sits above you.

“About time you woke up.”

You whirl around only for the world to spine. You’re in a tunnel somewhere, where tracks travel through it. An iron cart loaded with coal sits off to the side. Flickering lanterns chase away the pressing darkness. You have a feeling you’re still on the MacMillan Estate, in a place you’d never been before.

“Hey, don’t ignore me.” A boot nudges your leg.

Your stare darts over to the origin of the voice. A gasp cuts your mouth open.

Frank sits hunched beside you, back rested against a dirt wall, a wooden stake impaled through his ribs. His mask sits broken by his legs, cracked straight down the middle. Face scuffed and layered with grime. A deep, muddy red peeks out from beneath the dark fabric of his jacket, ruining the gray sweatshirt beneath. His expression is miserable, yet relieved as you lean in closer.

“Are you alright?” The question tumbled out of you.

“Do I _look_ alright?”

You don’t answer but shuffle to your feet, swaying as a bout of nausea courses through you. Your wounded arm tingles, and when you try and move it, you find it to be utterly useless. Numbing pricks trickling beneath the skin. Tiny pebbles and dust are caught in the caked blood.

You’re trying to stay calm, and yet, you keep involuntarily shaking. Every nerve in you has been split apart. You just want to go home.

When you glance over at Frank, he’s already staring at you. Face in an unreadable pinch. Your heart continues to speed up, thumping obnoxiously against your ribcage. The fear is written all over you in thick strokes.

“I’ve never seen you look like… _that_ before,” he absently mumbled.

Your brows lower, eyes forming slits.

“Like what?”

"Don’t know,” Frank said. His voice is quiet, and the silence that punctuates his sentence settles between you.

A short tremor racks through the mines. The sound travels above your head; dust falling into your hair. You curl into yourself on instinct, chin tucked to your shoulder, dread shining in your eyes. This place isn’t safe. You’re surprised the tunnel hadn’t collapsed in on itself already.

“Hey,” Frank’s voice is soft, concerned. Your vision begins to blur for the third time tonight, but you close your eyes and will the tears away. “Come here.”

He sounds so _nice_ and warm; you nearly crumpled to the ground in a mess of broken sobs. Not that long ago Frank had been the last person you wanted to be around, in and out of trials, but now…You can’t help but want to crawl into his arms. He seems like your safest option right now. Even with the broken stick poking out of his torso.

You sidle down beside him but keep your distance. Tucking your knees to your chest, you rest your head against the wall and attempt to calm your rapid breathing. Yet, just knowing Frank was nearby made the knot in your throat loosen. Something warm curls around your palm, and you flinch, but don’t pull away. His grip on your hand is weak. Every heartbeat is felt on your fingertips and you avoid even glancing at him.

“Sorry,” you pushed out.

“For what?”

“Getting us into this mess. If I hadn’t gotten angry and stormed off—“

"Bullshit.” Frank attempts to laugh, but instead, winces in pain. “It’s the Entity’s fucking fault for being such a piece of shit—“ Another wave shakes the mine, silencing the end of his insult. Frank decides to hold his tongue after that as if his words might bring on some unwanted karma. You find it kind of funny and crack a tired smile. A single wire was unwinding in your chest that made its erratic beating calm down. Frank stares at you for a moment, then the corners of his mouth slowly hitch upward. But he shivers, and your amusement is quickly replaced by a burst of concern.

His skin is a sickly pale shade beneath the smears of dirt and the harsh, purple bruising. Body limp with exhaustion. The stake slotted through his side is so long, you’re unsure how you’ll ever be able to get it out of him. Or if you should even try. Are you supposed to keep the wound plugged? Or is it the opposite? You have no idea.

“Whatcha doing?” He asked when you slowly got to your feet.

“Taking that thing,” you gestured at the stake. “Out of you.”

“You think you can?” He sounds more amused by the idea than anything. The smug look toying his features only makes you want to try more, though.

For a moment, your hand hovers over him, unsure what to do, where to begin, concerned this is only going to make things worse. But you have to try because you’re sure as hell not going to leave him here. The two of you get out of here together or not at all. A newfound determination sinks into you, and you slip your arm between his back and the wall. Frank’s teeth clench, barely concealing a pained groan.

“Okay, uh,” you pant. “On three?”

“Fuck no—“

“ _Onetwothree_.”

He cries out when you shove as hard as you can against his back, forcing his body up the stake. Frank pushes labored, livid breaths out of his nose. You hurry behind him and push again. He sounds like a wounded animal. You don’t know how any of the killers could get off on such a god-awful noise. You think you might be sick.

Rushing to his side before he can topple over, you wrap your able arm around him. Frank slumps against your chest, nose buried into the crook of your neck. Hot air fans down your shirt, goosebumps prickling your skin. As gently as you can, you ease him and yourself back down to the ground.

His head rests atop yours while he struggles to catch his breath. His body pressed against your side is a presence so glaringly noticeable to you; you’re wrestling with yourself to cope. A part of you wishes things were back to normal between you two, all hatred and harmful words. But deep down, you know that after today, things will never be the same again.

When he shifts, you’re drawn out of a daze.

“Fuck you for that,” Frank said, voice still warbled by the aftershocks of pain.

“Sorry.”

He shakes his head against you.

“You could have left.” It had begun to grow quiet again when he sighed. His voice is tinged with disbelief, and unapologetically sensitive. He bends his neck to gaze over at you, and when he opens his eyes, it’s as if he’s seeing you in a whole new light. Frank frowns, growing uncomfortable with the emotions swirling inside him, begging to be released.

“I was never going to,” you said.

He doesn’t know what to make of that.

Heavy footsteps thud through the tunnel in stunning echoes. You blink and turn away from Frank’s stare, attention drawn to the darkness at the end of the passageway. The hulking figure of the Trapper moving through the shadows has you tensing, a slap of fear to strike you. Frank’s reaction is unreadable.

“(Y/n),” Frank bumps his elbow into your ribs. “Get me my mask.”

You lurch over your folded legs to nab up the face wear. It’s still…somewhat in one piece, an enormous crack splitting the left eye and half of the smile. When the Trapper approaches, you squirm, unconsciously curling against Frank’s side, as if you could hide in his arms. Frank’s chuckle sends heat to your ears, but you don’t move, face buried into his shoulder. The Trapper is massive in such a cramped and suffocating space. His head is ducked to avoid any of the wooden beams, the enormous cleaver gripped sorely in his fist blunt and terrifying to the eye. It’s been permanently stained red. You gulp.

Frank casually positions his mask over his face. Part of his eye remains revealed beneath the crack. The Trapper slows and then comes to a full stop. The giant’s shadow bathes your huddled forms, and you fasten your grip on the fabric of Frank’s jacket, fist clenched tight enough to create a slight ache. “Funny meeting you here, Evan,” he joked like they were old buddies.

You’re startled into glancing at the masked face of the Trapper, or Evan as you’d just come to know. His eyes glow beneath the light of the lanterns, and the orange colors glint off the broken pipes and rods that pierced the man’s broad shoulders and arms. Just when you think he’s not going to respond, Evan gives a disapproving shake of his head.

“I should have known it was you.” His voice is grating, rough from a lack of use. The Trapper wasn’t the kind of killer to taunt or curse the survivors. You’d never heard him speak before, and to be honest, it doesn’t make him any less scary. His eyes move over to yours for only a moment, mouth concealed by the sharp teeth of the mask. “I told you to stop coming here.”

“But I missed you so much.”

You don’t miss how Frank’s hand slips over your own. His hold is rigid, protective in a way. Unsure of what might happen next despite the collected show he’s put on. It only serves to make you more anxious. The exchange doesn’t go unnoticed by the Trapper, however, stare barreled into your entwined forms. You shake off Frank’s hand and keep both of your arms tucked defensively to your chest. With the both of you wounded, you doubt either of you would be able to put up much of a fight if it came down to it. Not that you stood even a slight chance against the large, hulking, cleaver-wielding man anyhow.

Frank starts to climb to his feet and you can tell he’s trying to act subtle about the grating hole in his torso. But it’s hard to conceal the harsh clench of his jaw, or how his neck has turned an angry red, or the fact that he has to use the wall to support himself.

With a bend of his head, Evan’s shoulders fall.

“You two come with me.”

He turns away then and lumbers back down the tunnel. All you can do is sit and stare until there’s a tap on the crown of your head. Frank’s stood above you, arm wound across his stomach with his hand ministering pressure to the puncture hole in his side. You climb to your feet and follow after them.

* * *

Evan had led you from the dilapidated confines of the mine with ease. It was clear he knew his way around like the back of his hand, every step as confident as the next. When the three of you emerged beneath a vast night sky and open-air, you recognized the forsaken layout of the MacMillan Estate, or more or less, what was left of it. The imposing structure of the storehouse looms ahead, smashed in windows and boarded up openings present behind a cluster of trees and fallen construction.

He takes you inside without a word and, in the same manner, instructs the two of you to wait in the foyer. Just an authoritative bow of his head before he disappeared behind the stack of wrought iron shelves and stacked crates. 

Frank drops down onto a wood carton and sags in relief. You find yourself needing the rest too, having propped yourself against a locker. The cold metal pressed into the bare skin of your shoulders.

“How’s your arm?” He nods at your limb, urged against your stomach. The dried blood has glued it to the torn fabric of your tank top.

“Good, I think.” You weren’t sure, to be honest. It had lost feeling a while ago. “How’s your, erm…”

“Fine. Didn’t hurt that bad in the first place.”

You try and stifle your chuckle. His head perks, and from what you can see behind the fragmented mask, his top lip curls upward. You don’t have the energy to point out his cries of pain from earlier, not that you would want to. The sound still echoes in the back of your mind, afflicting the muscle in your chest. You don’t care. You don’t ever want to hear him hurt like that again.

The Trapper returns to the room, a metal box clasped in his large hands, and you stiffen. Neither of the killers makes a comment. He sets the box down on a tall, red tool chest. The scarred muscles in his back tighten when he stands to his full height. 

“Patch yourselves up and go,” he said. 

Frank calls out to him: “What do you think that earthquake was?”

The man doesn’t turn around, only the side of his mask revealed when he stops to think. The anticipation of his answer rests in the air. You’re not sure why you think he’ll know something important about the matter, but you wait on bated breaths anyway.

“I…” He squares his shoulders. “Don’t know.” Your stomach churned at the hesitance lacing his words. Evan dismisses himself with a curt nod then goes.

Frank shuffled over to the kit and flips the cap open. The storehouse groans and the wind comes whistling through the busted windows. It strings through your hair when you peer over his shoulder at the bundled mess of fabric bandages inside. There’s no disinfectant, or a needle and thread, but a few large safety pins rust at the bottom. Frank picks up a roll and begins to detangle it, his bloody fingers soiling the fibers.

You reach up to brush over the helix of your ear only to feel nothing. For a long while, you stand like a ghost beside him, staring off into space. He calls for you, but you don’t hear. Your eyebrows are raised high, lips screwed into a tight frown. Frank studies you for only a moment.

“(Y/n).”

Your heart skipped a beat when he said your name. Like it meant something. Your tongue feels like rubber.

“Why do we have to...Don’t our wounds just heal?” You flounder, despite having a good idea of what the answer might be.

“’s different outside of trials. It’s a slower process now.”

“What? Why?”

Frank seems disinterested in your questions.

“Dunno. Pretty sure it’s just another way for the Entity to fuck us over. I don’t think it likes when we interact with the other killers…or survivors.” He side-eyes you, then finishes messing with the bandages. “Quit worrying about it. It’ll be fine.”

“I can’t go back to the fire like this. They’ll know—“

“Then don’t. Come back to the lodge with me.”

Your frown deepens. “I don’t think that fixes the issue.”

“Look,” Frank said. He removes his mask to look you dead in the eye. “You’ve been gone a while. They’re gonna know something’s up either way. At least, if you stay at the lodge longer your arm will have a chance to heal. If you go back to your little survivor club and get sucked into a trial—“

You cut him off. “If I stay in the forest, I won’t be taken into any more trials?”

He gives a one-sided shrug. “What the fuck do I know. But it hasn’t happened yet.”

With easy fingers, Frank peels your mangled arm from your stomach. The torn flesh sticks to your shirt, stinging. There’s no water to wash the dirt and blood away from the wounds. His touch is considerate, _delicate_ when he begins to weave the bandages around your arm. Then, fashioning a make-shift sling, he winds it a few times around your shoulder and neck. It’s uncomfortably itchy, but you resist any noises of complaint. The fabric’s secured with several wide pins.

“What about you?” You asked when he began to close the kit.

“I told you, I’m fine. Not like you could help much anyway.”

You take your lip between your teeth, apprehension straining your features. Frank lets out an entertained hum before tugging on the strap of your tank top. He’s begun to make his way towards the door the Trapper had left through, leather fingers brushing over the back of your shoulder.

“Come on,” he urged, picking up his mask from the red tool chest. 

“Where are we going?”

“Where the fuck do you think? Back to the lodge.” You catch sight of his grin, surrounded by ash and grime, seconds before the mask goes back on. “But if you get caught in another trap, your ass is getting left behind.”

This time, you know he doesn’t mean it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also a (shameless) friendly reminder, every kudos or comment = a kiss on the cheek from me. Mwah!


	10. Befriending Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank you all again for being so patient and supportive <3 The love really means a lot to me. And again, sorry for the wait. This chapter is a whole mess, but hopefully, the brain fog isn't too obvious ;) xoxo.

In a once luxury ski resort, there isn’t exactly a designated workshop, so Frank and the others had turned the abandoned kitchen into a project room of sorts. A place where they could bide their time in between trials. Susie’s talent for drawing decorates the gray walls; vibrant colors, random eyeballs and mouths, flowers, skulls, and hello kitty portraits splashed about the kitchen. Bits of scrap metal and an open chest of rusty tools sit out on a counter. And sheets of detailed, stick-figure charts of Joey’s original superheroes and villains litter an industrial table.

It had quickly become one of your favorite places in the entirety of the realm. The amount of personality in a room otherwise surrounded by complete and utter dereliction was, in a way, charming. And the lack of holes in the ceiling was just the icing on the cake.

Frank’s cleared a new station for himself, slumped over a marble countertop as bits of broken wood and snapped pencils sit at his elbow. His mask, cracked and defaced, placed nearby for quick reference. With a squinch of his eyes, he studies the broken wood he had collected from outside with clear frustration. You’re not sure if he knows what he’s doing, but there’s attentiveness to his features. A gentle place of thought.

“Hey,” your voice is but a breathy whisper.

Frank pays you little to no mind, not even bothering to spare a glance over his shoulder. Instead, he steeples his fingers and sighs.

“Don’t suppose you’re an expert carpenter or some shit?” He asked when you positioned yourself at his side.

“I can’t remember. Sorry.”

He nearly winces at that, expression falling just short of convicted. “Keep forgetting about your shit memory. You should really do something about that.” Frank drags his hand over the back of his neck, then shakes his head, ridding his face of any emotion. A pinch forming between his eyebrows once more.

“I’m trying,” you teased.

There’s a beat where you’re not sure if you’re bothering him, or if he’s too focused on the task at hand to really mind your presence. But either way, your hands have found each other, pinching and prodding in an attempt to quell the nerves flickering within you. As of late, Frank hadn’t been hanging around with you and the rest of the Legion, so you’d decided to hunt him down. But now that you’re here, you’re not sure why you even bothered. It’s not like he would want to hang-out with just you. Joey, Susie, and Julie were his best friends. You’re just the girl who got snagged in a bear trap and had to seek refuge at their secret hideout. There wasn’t much else to it.

Your lip finds itself between your teeth. There’s something uncomfortable brewing in your chest. Unsure of what to do now, your stare drifts over to his mask. Your fingers gloss over the polished wood, falling in sync with the curve of its grin, to the circles of its eyes. It’s surreal, touching it now _—_ after you’d spent how many matches dreading the sight of it. Never before would you have thought that you’d be next to Frank, dressed in his leather jacket, admiring the distressing of his mask. It’s creepy and the reminder irks you more than it should.

“I made that.” There’s an unmistakable sense of pride marking his voice. It’s music to your ears. It’s incredible how attractive he sounds now that he’s not threatening you. “But back then I had tools and things to measure with, you know.”

Your hum sounds absent, but you’re listening to every word. “Yeah, you did a good job. I can say that now that the sight of it doesn’t intimidate the hell out of me.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

You stifle a smile, forcing it down with a hasty cough and fleeing glare. You’re shoulder to shoulder, hands placed onto the counter nearly an inch apart. Anxiety squeezing in your chest, and every time you look at him, it hurts more. That night in the mines fucked you over big time. You saw a side of Frank you’d never expected and he has never let you forget it since. You can’t help but wish things were easy again. Or, you suppose, less complicated.

The metal kitchen fixtures hung from the ceiling begin to rattle, and the world around you blurs. Tiled floor trembling beneath your feet before all goes silent once more. Your shoulders have hunched to your neck, a broad wave of panic washed over your features.

Ever since that first earthquake, the realm had been suffering from minor tremors. Nothing disastrous or life-threatening, but it never failed to ignite the bomb of anxiety nestled into your guts. All it serves to remind you of is the hurt it had caused you. Even with your arm nearly healed now, you’re still suffering from phantom pains.

“You alright?”

His question startled a squeak out of you, brows shot to your hairline. You clamp a hand over your mouth before nodding swiftly. That had to be the most embarrassing sound you’ve ever made, and you’re just waiting for him to crack a teasing joke at your expense. Frank says nothing, though, eyes flitting about your form. Concerned.

“Yeah…” You inch closer when a silent tremor vibrates beneath your feet. Your pinky finger brushes up against Frank’s, a touch so light you’d barely felt it yourself. You make eye-contact and your breath hitches in your throat. “I’m fine.”

His tongue darts out, flicking against his lip piercing.

“Yeah, uh,” he said, voice flat. Distracted. “That’s good.”

* * *

You flop down onto the broken sofa and kick your feet out, letting them rest on an armrest as a sigh seeps from your chest. You were lonely. And you wanted to beat yourself up for it. For a while now the Legion had been acting _off_ in a way that had you deeply concerned and also…sad. You’d grown accustomed to Susie’s candy-coated giggles and stream of off-the-hand compliments in the short time you’d been staying here. And now every single room in the lodge feels bitterly empty.

She’d been ignoring you. And at first, you had thought she was off in a trial, but when you found her in the kitchen and she immediately hurried off with a half-assed excuse—it was clear something else was going on. And the others were just as bad.

You felt stupid for pouting over it, but in the end, the way they’d been acting got to you. You miss the way Joey could ramble on and on about his favorite comics, how excited he got over a simple: _what the hell is a Quiverman?_ And the way he’d visibly grow uncomfortable with himself the second he realized he’d been rambling about suit designs for a near ten minutes now.

You miss the way Frank would peer over your shoulder, startling you half to death, only for him to worsen the racing of your heart when he began to tease you about it. The way he’d let slip that he thought it was _cute_. You miss Julie offering to teach you how to throw knives. How she’d bully you for simply breathing.

It was clear they’d been ignoring you. Maybe you had overstayed your welcome? After all, your arm is healed. But the thought of leaving makes you uncomfortable. All of a sudden you feel small and insecure and fifteen again. There’s a lump in your throat. Gravel in your stomach. An ice-pick in your temple. Fuck. You’re going to miss them, even if they won’t miss you.

Some time ago, your eyes had scrunched shut. Face pinched with frustration while you bask in your loneliness. There’s a creak of footsteps on rotted wood, but you don’t bother looking. You have a feeling that if you had, you might have started crying.

Someone pokes your shoulder. You’re tempted to pretend to be sleeping, but in the end, decide against it. Your eyelids are sticky when you pry them apart to find Susie’s bare face above your own, an unease filtered through her features. She forces out a hesitant smile, though, and pinches your cheek.

“Hey. Can you come with me?” She asked.

You shuffle up on the sofa, using your elbows as support. The petty side of you wants to give them a taste of their own medicine. And then the rest of you was just so relieved at her attention you find your head bobbing eagerly. She takes your hand then and pulls you from the couch. With an uncharacteristic silence, Susie leads you to the second floor, catching you when you tripped up on the raggedy carpeting. Someone stifles a laugh. Your head snaps over to find the rest of the gang waiting. 

They’re stood in a broken line, _THE LEGION_ scrawled in a web-like font behind them. Frank had told you before that the graffiti had been a birthday gift from the others to him, having commissioned some local artist with a twelve-pack and some spare cash. Without his mask to conceal every flicker of emotion, every slip in thought, you’d catch him admiring it often. Eyes soft, barely a smile toying his mouth. It had always warmed your heart. But seeing them gathered like this, all broad shoulders and steely looks, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t a little…intimidated.

“What’s going on?” You asked when Susie dropped your head and took position on the other side of Joey.

Their masks are all off, clutched in their hands. Except for Frank, whose arms are tied behind his back, a god awful smirk broadening his cheeks. When you locked eyes, he winked.

“Look,” Frank cleared his throat. “We’re not the most… _accepting_ group of people. It’s been just the four of us for forever. But I’m not going to go into some long-ass monologue, so I’ll just get to the point.”

Beneath the intensity of their stares, you can feel yourself growing shy. You duck your head, hair falling over your warm face.

“We got you something. But if you accept, there are no fucking take-backs. Okay, (Y/n)? We don’t take this shit lightly, and loyalty means everything here.”

You nod despite not knowing what the fuck is going on. They seem to take it as a green-light, though. Frank gives a stern nod, a silent command sounding out between the four of them. Julie slips on her mask first, followed by Joey, and then Susie. Frank removes an arm from behind and situates a brand new mask over his face. It’s the exact same make and mold as his old one, and you hate to admit it, but you’re kind of glad to see it. Knowing how much it means to him.

A shiver trickles up your spine. Frank takes a step forward, bringing something out from behind him.

“You’re one of us now, (Y/n).”

His fingers graze the back of your palm before he grabs your hand. Rough, sanded wood meets your skin and you look down to find another mask. The texture is a murky gray, the face of a skull painted in black. For a moment, all you can do is blink. No thoughts, head empty. Frank’s hands fold over your own, adjusting your loose grip.

_You’re one of us._

_You’re one of us._

_You’re one of us._

You feel your face break into a grin before you’d even processed your emotions. It’s wobbly, a flurry of heat coursing up the front of your neck, eyes spinning with emotion. They wanted you to be a part of them. You’re not sure you’d even processed that fully when you lock eyes with Frank’s painted ones. Your face stitched apart, cheek from cheek, with a happy smile. For now, you choose to ignore the disturbing feeling that’s made a home in your stomach. A gross nausea pushed to the back of your mind.

_You’re one of us now, (Y/n)._

* * *

Everything hurts.

Your face aches, insides rearranged by something blunt and hard. And it’s only now that you realized the person who’s screaming is you. There’s a flash of bright white in an otherwise pitch of darkness. Your fingers are dry but you can still feel a significant, thick, greasy wetness there. Iron floods your nostrils, paralyzing your senses.

What’s happening?

It hurts so much.

Where’s Frank?

His name forms on your tongue and you’re trying desperately to call for him around the lump in your throat. Reaching out into echoing darkness, blindly clawing at whatever’s near. Your palm scrapes against a smooth fabric, your knuckles hit something hard, and then your fingers managed to snag onto leather. Another strangled cry pounds against your lungs.

Your eyes fly open.

“Fucking hell.”

Frank’s face hovers above you, mask off, concern clear as his hands' cups your sweat-slicked jaw. The room is freezing, the mattress beneath you stiffer than a plank of wood. His gloves are off and you nudge your cheek into the warm, clammy sensation of his palm. This is the first time he’s ever touched you skin to skin and you’re not coherent enough to even realize it.

Sweat stains the front of your shirt, glues your hair to your temples, and glistens over the bags beneath your eyes. You don’t remember falling asleep but you remember the nightmare. Something so painstakingly real it felt more like a memory than a dream. You can still feel the blood on your chest, see the stars twinkling above, and hear a voice frantically calling your name. It was too familiar and every single cell in you knew it, too.

“What the fuck happened? Are you alright?”

You want to talk but you can’t. Instead, you wrap your arms around the only safety you know right now and pull yourself into him. He sits back onto the bed when your tear-stricken face buries itself into the crook of his shoulder, hot, panicked breaths warming the skin of his neck. Only a second passes before his arms come up and around you, securing you flush to his chest.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Frank pressed his mouth to your shoulder, voice muffled against the skin.

This wasn’t the first time you’d had a nightmare in the Entity’s realm. Anytime you had accidentally fallen asleep the dreams always seemed to be the stuff of horror films. Some were outlandish and whacky, an experience similar to tripping on acid, and others were akin to the terrors you’d witnessed in trials. Either way, you were constantly plagued with death, in and out of sleep.

You’re not sure why this time it’s any different, but you’re _terrified_ , clinging onto Frank like he’s the only thing keeping you from being dragged through the floorboards by the shadows cast about the room. It was _real_. Those three words chant, echoing around in your brain, and only worsening the ache in your chest. The words cut you deep, bleeding out on your tongue.

“It was real,” you whispered. Clutching frantically at the fabric on Frank’s back. Anything to feel closer to him.

Frank doesn’t answer. And when you pull back, he’s as white as a ghost.


End file.
